


a history of bad decisions

by mnabokov



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alcohol, Crossdressing, Multi, Recreational Drug Use, Sibling Incest, Underage Drinking, Underage Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-01
Updated: 2018-07-01
Packaged: 2019-05-24 17:33:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 19,340
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14959010
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mnabokov/pseuds/mnabokov
Summary: She coaxes him, “Come on then,” but Sam can’t even look at her; he’s only looking at Dean, and hell if he’s being obvious right now; he’s just waiting, like he always does, for Dean to lead the way, to take charge, for Dean to tell him -- yes or no, come in or get out.





	a history of bad decisions

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Neck Deep's album of the same name.

They live for a while in Lawrence, Kansas.  
  
They walk to school together in the morning after Sam turns five, and after class, walk back home together.  
  
It’s alright, Sam thinks, for the most part. Dad works odd hours, sometimes gone in the morning, leaving coffee dribbling into the carafe, cold and slow. Other times, he’s gone until late at night, long after Dean pads down the hallway into his room after finishing his homework.  
  
Childhood is a melange of vaguely pleasant memories, like Dean walking Sam to the corner park between their house and the school, waiting for him until the chill becomes too much and they have to retreat back home.  
  
Dean has a thing for this girl, brown hair brown eyes with a perpetual half smile, Jessica from Ms Martin’s seventh grade English class, when Sam is eight. Dean holds her hand and they walk -- the two of them, side by side -- to the park, Sam several yards ahead because if he hangs back too close, Dean’d have something to say when they got home. One particular afternoon, Sam runs with a few of the boys to the swing set across the park, leaving Jessica and Dean by the trees near the water fountain.  
  
A wrestling match breaks out between two of the fifth graders, and Sam scurries back to the water fountain.  
  
Dean and Jessica sit underneath an oak tree, the folds of her blue skirt just brushing her pale kneecaps, Dean’s arm around her shoulders. Sunlight filters through the leaves above them. Sam remembers slowing down, ducking behind the plastic play structure to watch Dean lean in and press his mouth against Jessica’s, like in the movies. Dean puts his hand on Jessica’s kneecap, his fingers brushing the folds of her blue skirt. Sam remembers running back to the other boys.  
  
Anyway, Sam and Dean go to school like normal kids, up until Dean turns fourteen and their dad has a nasty incident at Clinton State Park. He never really talks about it, at least not to Sam’s face, and so Sam never finds out what happens -- but he knows enough, hears enough to guess.  
  
They move to Wyoming, where Dad works for the feds and not the state, now. They live there for a few years.  
  
In that time, Sam learns a hell of a lot.  
  
  
+  
  
  
It starts like this:  
  
It starts with one day, when Sam is about eleven years old, and he wakes up in the middle of the night to creep out into the kitchen, in search of a glass of water. He passes Dean’s room, and the door’s slightly ajar, when he hears the irregular panting of Dean’s breath.  
  
“Uh,” Dean pants, “Unh, unh, uh.”  
  
Curiosity overcomes him and Sam ducks his head, tilting so that he can just barely make out the slivers of moonlight that slant across Dean’s bed. He sees the jerky movement of Dean’s fist underneath the blanket, and the moonlight pooling in the dip of Dean’s throat, on his open mouth; his stomach twists, oddily, and Sam slinks away.  
  
A year or two later later, Sam has a dream.  
  
He doesn’t remember the first one exactly, but he remembers dreaming about Jessica.  
  
He dreams that Dean’s kissing her again, just like on those shows on TV, his big hand on her pretty blue skirt. He dreams that Dean touches her collarbone, and her soft white shirt. He wakes up with his skin sticky and sheets damp.  
  
The dreams escalate.  
  
Sam dreams about kissing, except this time, with open mouths and tongue, like how some of the boys whisper about in the locker room. He dreams about Dean’s hand -- rough and large and calloused from how he’s starting to learn how to use Dad’s Remington M700, him and Dad spending days out behind the cabin practicing shooting; they don’t invite Sam to come out back and Sam never asks -- sliding up Jessica or Liz or Maryanne or whoever’s leg. He dreams about skin. He dreams and he wakes up, uncomfortably warm, rutting against his sheets or with his pillow clamped between his thighs. When he’s assigned to Julia, a blonde girl with small teeth and a nice smile, in his history class for a project, he talks to her real nice and thinks about her once or twice too.  
  
Dean turns seventeen, and he gets to drive the Impala.  
  
Sam doesn’t quite understand the significance of this in relation to females until one day his friends and him decide to go to the pictures to see the newest alien B-movie.  
  
They buy popcorn and cola and candy from a freckled high schooler manning the concessions and settle in the back seat of the dark theater, strategically trading sweets and sipping from their sodas while waiting for the movie to start.  
  
Just as the lights begin to dim, Dean sneaks in with his hand around a brunette’s waist, slipping into seats two rows in front of Sam and his friends, the latter of which are too busy chatting amongst themselves to notice Sam’s brother ahead.  
  
Sam doesn’t say anything when the movie starts, but keeps stealing glances out of the corner of his eye, snatches of their two shadows touching in the dark. Sam focuses back on the movie when Kevin jostles him to hand over the popcorn; Sam resolutely stares straight ahead, even as his fingers, slick with greasy butter, slip on the popcorn. He doesn’t imagine the two of them kissing; he doesn’t imagine how it would feel to bring Julia from history to the pictures, and sidle up next to her like that, kiss her like that, slide his hand --  
  
Afterwards, Sam’s friends joke a bit, rough-housing as they exit the theater. Dean and his girl stumble out soon afterwards, him laughing and her adjusting her blouse as they slip into the Impala and drive out.  
  
The next day, Sam’s eating his plastic rice and chicken school lunch when some of the older boys in the cafeteria begin laughing boisterously at the next table over.  
  
“‘f I had a car like that, I’d be taking a girl out every single day,” one of the boys leers.  
  
“Every single night,” amends another.  
  
They guffaw and proceed to talk about backseat makeouts while Sam attempts to maintain a straight face, finishing his lunch.  
  
That night, he imagines Dean and the girl in the backseat of the Impala, her blouse unbuttoned and Dean’s hands on her shoulders, her breasts, her waist. He imagines their open mouths in the darkness, their hands and fingers slick, like how Sam’s fingers were slick with popcorn butter. He imagines it’d leave stains on jeans and blouses alike. He wonders how Julia’s breasts would feel underneath his hands.  
  
“We have a couple of options,” Julia says a few days later, in their history class. Today she’s wearing a nice denim jacket and matching shorts. “We can research the history of a national park, or a state park, or -- ”  
  
“National Park,” Sam says, pulling out his notebook. “We can do Grand Teton.”  
  
Julia writes ‘Grand Teton National Park, Wyoming’ at the top of her notebook in big bold letters. Not to be outdone, Sam does the same on a fresh, blank page as well.  
  
“My dad works there,” Sam blurts out. “I can ask him for some stuff.”  
  
She looks up and blinks. “Alright,” she says slowly. “What is he, a ranger?”  
  
“No,” Sam shoves his hands into his pockets.  
  
“What is he, then?”  
  
“He’s a tracker. He hunts down the bears or wolves that are hurting people and -- yeah.”  
  
Julia’s mouth forms a small o. She appears to contemplate that bit of information for a second, then brightens. “That’s good then!” she smiles. “He’s keeping people safe.”  
  
Sam smiles as well. “Yeah,” he agrees. “Totally.”  
  
Sam and Julia walk to the library after school that day to continue working on their project.  
  
Sam discovers that Julia is pretty and smart: she knows how the Dewey decimal system works just as well as he does, and finds the section they're looking for just a second before he does. The only thing is that she can't quite reach the shelf to grab the book they want, and though Sam's shorter and skinnier than almost all the other boys in his grade, he's just a bit taller than Julia. He reaches for the book and gets it for her, and brushes against her shoulder in the process. He blushes and the burn only recedes after they've found a quiet, sunlit table at the back of the library to sit and read.  
  
Sam also offers to walk her home after they finish a good chunk of work. She accepts and explains to Sam the meaning and history of each bright pin on her denim jacket as they walk back together, jumping over the cracks in the pavement and ambling on like children.  
  
"Well, bye Sam," Julia says when she reaches the driveway of her house.  
  
The front door to her house swings open and Sam waves hello to her mother.  
  
"Bye, Julia," he says. He's already thinking of one of his dad's pins that he can give to her tomorrow, so she can add it to her collection.  
  
They talk even after they finish working on their project together. One Friday afternoon, Sam invites her over to look at his dad's tracking books, the ones that have footprints of deer and rabbits and bears and wolves.  
  
"Gee," Julia says, flipping through a book. They're sitting on the soft couch in the living room, about a half of a foot of space between them, the large book on the cushion between their thighs. "Looking at these pictures -- it makes tracking seem so much easier. Once you know what you're looking for, reading tracks is like reading a book."  
  
"Yeah," Sam agrees. He's about to tell Julia one of Dad's stories -- one from Kansas, where he had tracked a large wolf who was killing sheep for two days -- when the front door swings open.  
  
Here's something else that Sam learns in Wyoming: Dean's reputation precedes him.  
  
“Sammy,” Dean calls out as the screen door slams open. “Where -- oh.” Dean’s face goes from mildly annoyed to smooth and smirking in about two seconds. “Hi there.” Dean leans up against the doorway, his leather jacket hanging over his worn jeans, looking tall and sturdy and broad where Sam’s just skin and bone and awkward angles.  
  
“Dean,” Sam says. “This is Julia. We’re, um, working on a project together. For history. Julia, this is Dean.”  
  
“Hi there, Julia,” Dean drawls, smooth as you please, striding past the living room and into the kitchen, where he starts rummaging in the refrigerator.  
  
Julia turns back to the book, but her cheeks are bright red and she seems distracted as they continue flipping through the book.  
  
They finish soon after that, and Dean offers to drive Julia home.  
  
“Oh,” she says, when Dean sticks his head back in the living room to say so. She glances at Sam. “Alright.”  
  
Which sucks, because Julia’s nice and pretty and likes Sam’s stories, but Sam is scrawny and Dean Winchester’s kid brother. And at the end of the day, it’s Dean’s car that Julia slides into, her jeans smooth against the leather and her cheeks impossibly flushed as she and Sam sit in the backseat; it’s Dean that calls out good night to her as she makes her way up to the porch where her mother’s left the front light out waiting for her; Sam walks her up but can’t manage more than a mumbled ‘good night’ before he’s scampering back to the Impala.  
  
“Well,” Dean smirks as Sam shuts the door.  
  
“Shut up,” Sam mutters, turning away.  
  
“No good night kiss? I’m disappointed in ya, Sammy.”  
  
“Said shut up,” Sam glares out of the window as they peel around the cul-de-sac, heading home.  
  
Dean snorts.  
  
Dean’s been seventeen for three and a half weeks when John Winchester decides that seventeen and three and a half weeks is old enough for a teenage boy to stay home and look over his kid brother; their dad takes a call from Yellowstone, a Ranger worried about a family of bears deep in a backcountry campsite, and leaves with his hiking gear and worn boots, which indicates that he’ll be gone for a while.  
  
As such, Dean, ever the opportunist, invites a girl over the very first night that their dad leaves. It’s not the girl from the movie theater; this one’s short, about the same size as Sam, with thin limbs and a wry smile. Dean and her stay up watching TV until Dean tells Sam it’s time to go to sleep; Sam goes without Dean having to ask twice, but can’t sleep at all.  
  
His room is too stuffy, his blankets too constricting and his sheets too itchy. Sam can’t sleep.  
  
He cracks open the window and breathes in the cold air for a bit, but then can’t stop listening to the muffles and giggles from across the hallway.  
  
It’s quiet for a bit, so Sam thinks it’s safe: he sneaks out to the kitchen to grab some water, but on his way back, Dean’s door is open and Sam can’t help -- honest, he didn’t mean to look, but the door was just -- just open and he’s curious --  
  
So he peeks into the room, and Dean?  
  
Dean most likely doesn’t even remember that Sam’s still there: the door’s halfway open and she -- Laurel, her name is Laurel -- is perched up on Dean’s bed, her thin dress falling like a waterfall over the edge of the mattress. Dean’s skin glints in the moonlight leaking in through the window; his eyebrows are furrowed, like he’s frustrated, and his mouth is slightly open.  
  
Their bodies are rocking, making nearly no noise, but it wouldn’t matter if they were because all Sam can hear is the rushing of blood in his head, his heart beating thump thump thump, hammering in his chest --  
  
“Uhh,” Laurel groans suddenly, throwing her head back as Dean rolls forward, his hips pistoning back and forth. Her breasts bounce. “Uh, uh, uh -- ”  
  
And all the sudden, Dean starts moaning too, “oh, God, Laurel, _Jesus_ , uh,” like that, like, like he can’t handle it, the heat, their bodies, her skin --  
  
“Dean,” she pants, “Dean, fuck, I -- ”  
  
Sam swallows roughly and heads back to his room, closing the door, slamming the door almost, and he expects Dean to yell or something, about him making a racket, but nothing happens and Sam just barrels into his bed, yanking the sheets over his head and sticking a hand desperately into his pants, pushing and pulling and rubbing and groaning and moaning until he comes and comes and comes.  
  
  
+  
  
  
The morning after is still a week day, and Sam has school. Dean has an off-period in the morning but helps out at the local mechanic shop.  
  
Sam wakes up right on time and cleans up, changes his clothes and eats breakfast, waiting until the very last moment possible before stomping into Dean’s room.  
  
“Dean,” Sam says loudly, hoping that his voice doesn’t tremble as much as he thinks it does. “Dean. Get up. You have to drive me to school.”  
  
Dean groans, rolling over in his bed, most likely exhausted from last night’s fucking and from his late driving Laurel back home. The room reeks of sweat and musk and salt; Sam fights hard not to flush.  
  
“Walk yourself,” Dean says into his pillow, muffled.  
  
Sam counters, “You have work, anyway.”  
  
Dean mutters something about alcohol and a bitch; his hair’s artfully disheveled and his face is rumpled, but he still looks unfairly put together.  
  
He sits up, white sheets falling over his broad shoulders, his chest. Sam takes a step back. “We’re going to be late,” he says belatedly.  
  
This goes on for several days: Dean brings home Laurel, and then Deanna from across the street who Sam remembers was dating another boy just a few weeks ago. Sam shoves his pillow over his head and tries to block out the coloratura of female moaning, like she’s never had it this good, not ever, like Dean fucks like a wet dream, his hips rolling slow and even and liquid until he picks up the pace, the bed springs creaking unbelievably loud, mixing with the sound of flesh slapping against flesh, fucking _obscene_ \--  
  
Sam wakes him up each morning afterwards, for four days, barely stepping into Dean’s room to ensure his brother’s awake; he meets Dean’s gaze across the stiff sheets and tries not to waver as Dean’s mouth twists, slow and languid.  
  
Sam flushes and turns away.  
  
  
+  
  
  
In school, Sam gets distracted in math.  
  
One of the girls in front of him is whispering to her friend; they’re talking about lipstick or something, because her boyfriend kissed her and God, Karen, I can’t believe you let him --  
  
Karen smirks, confident and playful, a he whispers something to her friend. She pulls down her collar and Sam catches a glance of a dark shadow, the hint of a bruise, before Karen yanks her shirt back down. Both of the girls are sophomores -- Sam’s now a freshman but tested up into their class -- and seem more interested in gossip than memorizing the quadratic function. _  
_ _  
_ It’s called a hickey, Sam knows that, but it doesn’t stop him from thinking of Dean’s mouth on Laurel’s chest, on her neck, her breasts.  
  
_Fuck_ , Sam thinks.  
  
A smack hits him on the back of his head, shaking him out of his reverie.  
  
Sam looks over his shoulder and meets the gaze of Reese Thompson, a junior with inky black hair on the soccer team. The offending projectile -- a bunched up ball of paper -- rests on the floor. “Move your head, kid.”  
  
Sam tilts his head back to normal; he’d been leaning slightly to listen in on Karen’s conversation and now resumes his normal posture as their teacher continues lecturing. He pushes all of this fantasties aside and continues taking notes, the feel of Reese’s gaze on his back all the while.  
  
Dad comes back with one of his hunting friends -- acquaintance, peer, coworker or whatever -- who got his leg caught in a stray snare trap. It’s a little grisly, but not uncommon, so Sam packs out of his room like usual, moving his stuff to Dean’s like usual, like every time they have someone over that needs a solid mattress and a hot meal.  
  
“I don’t want to sleep on the floor,” Sam blurts out, like a kid, dumbly. It’s the first thing he says after dumping his shit onto the detritus of crinkled candy wrappers, old boxers, and half-assed homework.  
  
Dean eyes him, Sam, his kid brother in too-big pajama bottoms and a ratty Science Olympiad shirt from seventh grade because while Dean shot up like a weed, Sam’s still scrawny as he was in junior high. “So don’t,” Dean says easily.  
  
Dean and Sam fix dinner together that night: Travis, Dad’s friend, and John spread out their maps and sketches across the dining room table, arguing over slope and incline and spoor. In the kitchen, their buttery yellow light spills across the tile floor and metal pots and pans.  
  
They make chili, Sam and Dean, together: Dean pulls out the leftover package of ground beef, tearing off the Saran wrap and tossing the meat into the rusted pot with some garlic and tomato sauce. Sam chops the onions and cheese as best he can, his hand still a bit clumsy with the knife. Dean’s talking about this asshole on the football team, some punk-face jerk who won’t do one thing or another. His complaints mix in with the cocktail of noises already hanging in the kitchen, above their heads, like a cloud -- the mostly rhythmic sound of a metal knife against plastic cutting board, the bubbling of chili, the rattle of the vent as it sucks up the stray gas from their stove. Dean bumps his hip into Sam’s waist good-naturedly when he pulls out the chili powder and cumin from the cupboard by Sam’s thigh; Sam gives Dean a piece of cheese and Dean’s fingers are rough and warm when they press against Sam’s hand for a second too long.  
  
After eating and the washing up, Dean grabs the three empty tin cans, which used to be full of tomato sauce, kidney beans, and pinto beans before they started cooking, and heads to the backyard. Without question, Sam follows.  
  
Travis and John’s conversation wafts outside, onto the porch where Sam perches on the ragged old chair overlooking their yard. A few moths flutter around the solitary lantern hanging on the porch; the radio’s warbling some old song, crooning into the warm summer night.  
  
Dean sets up the cans and knocks them off a fence he put up just for this, about fifty yards away across their dried yellow grass and cracked dirt. Sam pulls out a tattered copy of _To Kill a Mockingbird_ , which is from the school library, and begins to read.  
  
Later, after they’ve turned out the lights and changed into their pajamas, Sam and Dean clamber into Dean’s bed.  
  
It’s awkward a bit, because they aren’t so small anymore, but Sam’s still a hell of a lot skinnier than Dean, so it could be worse.  
  
“Comfortable?” Dean asks as Sam slides into the bed. The sheets are thin and worn.  
  
Sam nods.  
  
Dean stands there for a moment, fiddling with the hem of his shirt. After a long second he finally meets Sam’s gaze. Dean turns out the light and crawls in next to Sam.  
  
The both of them shift and turn a bit. Sam ends up pressed against the wall, his knees tucked up behind Dean’s. Dean clears his throat and pulls away to readjust himself, but when he’s settled again he’s no farther than he was before.  
  
“You like Julia?” Dean asks. From this angle, Sam can only see the back of his head, and the outline of a tag through the threadbare material of Dean’s worn Pink Floyd shirt. It’s easier to talk when they aren’t looking at each other.  
  
“Yeah,” Sam says. He exhales quietly through his mouth.  
  
“Hm.”  
  
Sam doesn’t remember falling asleep.  
  
He wakes unusually warm -- he gets cold easily, especially when he forgets to close his windows -- and unusually early.  
  
Dean’s already up, but the residue of his body heat clings to the sheets like heady perfume.  Sam realizes his hips are canting into the mattress only when the bed creaks; he freezes and cracks his eyes open to see Dean across the room, his back to the bed, changing into today’s clothes.  
  
“You ready?” Dean asks, turning around. Sunlight comes in thick stripes through the Venetian blinds. Sam thinks of Renaissance painters, the ones who used these large swaths of color and oil to refract light off of skin on the canvas.  
  
“Yeah,” Sam says. He’s glad that the sheets cover him from chest down; he props up a leg to cover up anyway. Dean eyes him suspiciously for a second, then apparently loses interest and turns away.  
  
Sam waits until Dean leaves before clambering out of bed. For a second, Sam looks back at the warm cocoon of sheets longingly. He jerks his gaze away and heads out the door.  
  
Reese Thompson comes up to Sam that same afternoon after pre-calc. The bell rings and Sam scoops up all of his stuff into his bag, heading towards his locker. He closes his locker after retrieving his world history textbook, only to see Reese Thompson’s face.  
  
“Hey,” the guy says. He’s built like a true athlete, thick across the shoulders and bulky as he makes his way through school, shouldering across hallways and soccer fields alike. Sam’s pretty sure he’s seen the guy hang out with Dean before.  
  
Sam closes his locker and shoulders his book bag, tensing in preparation for confrontation.  
  
See, the thing is, Sam’s a nice guy. He genuinely tries his best at school because he, to a certain extent, enjoys it. He chills with some kids from marching band and the guys who hang out behind the bungalows during passing period. He’s not cool, per say, like Dean, who goes out late and has a different girl hanging on his arm every other week. But Sam isn’t, like, an _outcast_ , either.  
  
Anyway, the point is, he’s not any more prone to being bullied than the next guy -- that is to say, not very prone at all -- but Reese Thompson plays soccer and football and drives his dad’s old truck to school. So Sam huffs. “Hi,” he says reluctantly when Reese says nothing.  
  
“You’re pretty decent in the old hag’s class, huh?” Reese leans against the locker next to Sam’s.  
  
“Yeah.” Sam shrugs and starts shifting in the other direction, anxious to get to class. “What about it?”  
  
Another jock comes up and interrupts before Reese can reply. “Hey Reese,” the guy goes, approaching them. Upon seeing Sam, the other guy leers. “Already getting the freshmen to suck your dick, huh, Thompson?”  
  
Reese huffs a laugh, half cruel and half dismissive. “Fuck off, Barnhill.”  
  
“Ain’t got all day Thompson,” is the reply and then Reese gives Sam one final look before slinging an arm around the other junior’s shoulders and walking away. Sam brushes his hair out of his eyes idly. He lingers for a moment, then heads to class.  
  
Reese Thompson finds him once more before the end of the week, during lunch. Sam’s in the library with Julia, helping her study for a math quiz they have next period.  
  
“Hey kid,” Thompson announces, and what is this, a friggin’ high school comedy? Because Sam hadn’t known that Thompson even knew where the library was until now. Julia and Sam look up and blink. Reese shifts his weight from one foot to another. “So this quiz, huh?”  
  
They actually end up studying, the three of them, Julia only slightly bemused by Reese’s presence.  
  
And that Friday, when Ms Hagstrom passes back their quizzes, Reese with a red B+ on his and Sam with an A as usual, Reese Thompson thumps Sam solidly on the back on his way out of class.  
  
  
+  
  
  
The next Friday night, Dean stomps back home early. His current girlfriend is out of town. Sam carefully ignores Dean’s huffing and puffing.  
  
Dad’s out of town and so Dean slams the doors and sprawls out on the couch. Sam doesn’t even flinch when Dean heats up a Hungry Man dinner.  
  
Dean goes, “So.”  
  
An infomercial flashes across the TV screen. “So,” Sam echoes.  
  
Dean goes, “Let’s go out.”  
  
Sam says, “I have homework.”  
  
“It’s Friday.”  
  
“And?”  
  
Dean goes, “Let’s go out,” again, more earnestly this time. “My treat.” Sam’s protests crumble and die in his mouth. He can never quite figure out how to say no to Dean.  
  
Dean takes them to the pictures, windows of the Impala rolled down and Led Zeppelin blasting. He buys their tickets and a bucket of popcorn to share, pulling out his wallet all gentlemen-like, like he’s on a date, like Sammy’s one of -- one of his _girls_ \--  
  
During the movie, which is some cheesy horror they’re already both seen before, Dean tosses his arm around Sam’s seat, casual.  
  
In the shared tub of popcorn between them, their fingers brush. Their skin is slick with butter.  
  
“You ever take Julia to the movies?” Dean asks when the movie’s finished, when they’re ambling back to the Impala. Sam doesn’t know why Dean asks questions he already knows the answer to.  
  
From across the dark parking lot, someone calls out, “Hey Winchester!” and Dean lifts an arm up in greeting.  
  
“Not yet,” Sam says stiffly. “We’re just friends.” Immediately he wants to take back his words -- because what is that supposed to mean? That you can’t go to the movies unless --  
  
“Just friends,” Dean repeats. “For what, two years?”  
  
“You do know what friends are, right?” Sam snaps, swinging open the passenger door to the Impala and sliding into the car. Dean’s mouth twists a bit but he follows suit.  
  
The engine purrs on; they peel out of the lot and leave behind the crunching of gravel.  
  
“Hungry?” Dean asks over the rumble of the car.  
  
“You just had a TV dinner,” protests Sam.  
  
“Was askin’ about you, Samantha, not me.”  
  
Sam shrugs. Whatever.  
  
Sam says, “Whatever.”  
  
“I could kill a milkshake right now.”  
  
“And it’s gonna kill you if you keep eatin’ like that,” retorts Sam.  
  
“Let’s get milkshakes,” Dean says cheerily.  
  
Fifteen minutes later, they’re sliding into a red booth at the best diner in town. The waitress predictably bats her eyelashes at Dean. “And what can I get you boys tonight?”  
  
“Fries and a milkshake for me,” Dean rasps, “And the same for my little brother.”  
  
“You got it,” she winks and ruffles Sam’s hair.  
  
“Alright,” Dean says after the waitress walks away. “What’s eating you? You’ve been bitchy all day.”  
  
“Nothing,” Sam mumbles.  
  
Dean scowls. “What is it?”  
  
Sam sits back and scowls as well. “I’m not your -- I’m not some cheap stand-in for when you don’t hava girl around.”  
  
And that’s not fair.  
  
It really isn’t, because Sam knows that Dean knows that Sam knows that Dean loves him: Dean drives him to school and Academic League practice and Science Olympiad practice; and always makes sure that Dad never drags Sam into any mess he doesn’t need to be in. It’s unfair because Sam’s just cranky. And Dean knows that.  
  
That’s why, after their fries and milkshakes come, Dean smirks and leans in, lips crooked and twitching with humor. “Aw, don’t tell me you don’t love being Dean Winchester’s girl.”  
  
Sam flushes and grabs his milkshake, slurping furiously. “Gross, Dean,” Sam splutters when he can finally form words again.  
  
Dean just laughs and laughs and laughs, catching the attention of several females in the vicinity, who eye Dean appreciatively. “Whatever you say, Sammy.”  
  
And then Dean leans forward to wipe a bit of whipped cream from Sam’s bottom lip, as if this is some fucking romcom. Regardless, Sam’s stomach churns, and he can’t stop from grinning back across the table at Dean.  
  
  
+  
  
  
Sam is a lot of things. But oblivious is not one of them.  
  
He knows what the guys do when they take out a girl for a night, when they park at the dark spot on the hill overlooking the park; he hears the guys in the locker room. He hears someone, James on the lacrosse team, talking locker room talk with the other guys. He’s talking about Sandra, all spread out in the backseat of his car, bare skin against leather. Sam pictures the Impala and bronze skin and Michelangelo and Botticelli.  
  
He knows that there are plenty of high school parties -- Dean goes to a fair amount of them, after all, coming home and reeking of beer and sweat and weed -- which involve the aforementioned drugs and alcohol and sex or whatever.  
  
(Sam once spent an afternoon researching the long-term effects of marijuana on an adolescent user, but don’t tell anyone.)  
  
However, there is a difference between knowing and experiencing.  
  
With that in mind, let’s backtrack a bit.  
  
It starts like this:  
  
Sam’s been hanging out, for lack of a better word, with Reese Thompson for a bit. The guy and a few of his jock friends (juniors and seniors mostly) come and talk to Sam and Julia once in a while; it’s kind of like a symbiotic relationship in that the jocks are leeching off of Sam and Juls, but it’s also like, the guys are alright, sort of nice in their own way.  
  
Anyway, eventually, one particular Friday night, Sam’s putting away his pre-calc book, same as always, when Thompson comes up. This isn’t too unusual, but Thompson’s got a devious look when he leans against the locker next to Sam’s.  
  
“You coming to the game?”  
  
“Game?”  
  
Thompson snorts. “Come on, the last game football game of the season. You going?”  
  
Sam shakes his head. “I have Academic League practice.”  
  
Thompson huffs and heads away.  
  
He isn’t that easily dissuaded however, which is what Sam learns after Academic League practice that Friday.  
  
A stream of mostly nerdy kids plus Sam flows out of Ms. Hagstrom’s class that night after their practice, and Sam’s scrambling to stuff his notes into his backpack, preparing to walk home. It starts when Brock, who was supposed to graduate last year but was held back, comes up and pressures Sam into coming to the party.  
  
It also starts like this:  
  
Another school year, another long night.  
  
He’s in someone’s backyard -- a garden, except more concrete patio and less grass -- and he’s sitting. He remembers getting out of Brock’s car, walking up the lawn that was littered with empty plastic Solo cups and indistinguishable dark silhouettes. Someone had ushered him to the backyard.  
  
Now, underneath his pants scratches a splintering wood that makes up the bench he’s on. Overhead, the moon blinks slowly. It’s only slightly sprinkling now, not nearly enough to usher the shadowy group of students inside.  
  
“Sam,” someone says. “D’you want another hit?”  
  
“Um,” Sam says. “I’m alright.”  
  
They pass Sam and the guy next to him takes the blunt between two fingers. The thick smell hangs over them like a cloud.  
  
Sam’s entire body feels heavy, and good.  
  
Metallic rattling. The screen door opens and Sam turns his head to the left to see Karen stepping out of the house.  
  
“What time did we get here?” Sam hears himself ask.  
  
“I just got here,” Karen says wryly. Why does she look at him like that?  
  
“No,” Sam frowns, “What time did we -- did all of us come here? To the backyard?”  
  
“Dunno,” someone else says. “Nine-thirty?”  
  
Sam turns his wrist and looks down at his watch. Nearly ten-fifteen. “I think I’ll head back inside,” Sam says to the group at large. He stands up and walks inside slowly. One foot in front of the other. It’s cold outside.  
  
It’s warm inside. Someone’s put up lights, like the flashing, colorful ones that change from green to blue, to blue to red, red to green, green to blue to red to green.  
  
The lights blink and everything happens in slow motion, but not at the same time; it’s like time has melted down and been reconstructed in the space between the changing lights, in the space between each of Sam’ breaths, as if the world has been razed and raised anew, into something organic, without constraints, without construct.  
  
Sam is high as fuck.  
  
“Let’s order a something,” Karen says, a cold bottle pressed to her cold lips, her cold eyes startlingly blue and lucid as she steps up to Sam.  
  
“A pizza.”  
  
“Here,” she says, handing Sam a credit card, but when he squints down at it, it’s impossible to even make out the little numbers.  
  
“How can you do this,” he hears himself ask her.  
  
“With difficulty,” she says, taking the card back. Sam feels an irrational bubble of mirth rising in his chest, spilling out of his mouth in a dry laugh. “There’s cash in the upstairs bedroom. Reese keeps it in the dresser. Be a darling, and grab it, will you?”  
  
So he’s at this party, and it’s crowded, like a stereotypical high school house party: people are drinking, smoking, fucking, whatever. Sam’s finished a cup of something nasty and doesn’t stumble much as he heads up the stairs. The smell of weed hangs in the air, his chest stinging with the sweet, cloying stench of it.  
  
There was just a football game -- Sam knows this. That’s why some of the girls have their cheerleading gear thrown across the bed; it looks like Sam’s stumbled in on, on something. It’s like --  
  
“Sam!” one of the girls calls out from the bed.  
  
Sam blinks. It’s hard, so hard, to keep track of time, it’s like he’s losing these little pockets of time and he’s trying to hold onto them but it’s so slippery --  
  
“Dude, he’s fucking crossed,” someone says, and it sounds like a guy from Sam’s math class but he can’t tell.  
  
“Sam,” Karen’s face swims into view. And wasn’t she just in the kitchen?  
  
“Weren’t you just in the kitchen?” Sam asks, his mouth dry.  
  
She grins at him. “You’re so funny, Sammy.”  
  
Karen brings him over to the bed, pushing aside paraphernalia and a few empty cups so Sam can sit. Around him, the girls resume their talking, once in a while a guy interjecting; they’re talking about cheer, and the game, the football game; it’s like their voices are swimming in and out of attention. Sam blinks and tries to follow their conversation.  
  
“ -- try cheering in that outfit.”  
  
“How bad can it be?” the dude goes. “I mean -- ”  
  
This is how it (really) starts:  
  
The girls and the guy are arguing about the difficulty of wearing a cheerleading outfit.  
  
Looking back on it, Sam can honestly tell you he has no idea how it happened.  
  
This is what happens:  
  
Sam was supposed to walk home after Academic League practice since Dean was out; Brock Langley sees him and drives him to the party; Sam’s ushered into the backyard where he gets high for the first time, loses track of time -- someone says he’s crossed -- then they migrate into the bedroom.  
  
Someone says, “It can’t be that bad, I mean you do it all the time -- ”  
  
“That doesn’t mean that it’s _easy_ , guy, I mean you try it!”  
  
“ -- ‘m not putting that on, only -- hey, hey Sammy!”  
  
Karen’s pretty face appears suddenly in front of Sam. “Hey Sam,” she goes, “Wanna give it a go?”  
  
It’s kind of -- kind of a joke, and somewhere deep within his gut, Sam can feel the first stirrings of embarrassment, but it doesn’t really sink in. He feels slow and heavy and good; it’s not like -- they, they _parade_ him or anything --  
  
Reese Thompson appears; he’s grinning, leering almost, one hand clutching a red plastic cup and the other reaching out to steady Sam as he stumbles forward. “Sam,” Reese says slowly, the words drawling in his mouth, “You clean up pretty nice.”  
  
The bedroom: tiny, yellow, cramped; the one with a low ceiling and a push-out window and wood flooring. A group of girls are tittering, perched on the bed. The door swings open and someone walks in. Dean looks like he doesn’t belong here. Sam blinks. Dean doesn’t -- he shouldn’t be here; he isn’t -- why is he --  
  
There’s no warning before Dean crosses the room and punches Reese solidly in the jaw. “Get the fuck off him,” Dean snaps as Reese swings across the room, clutching his face. The girls gasp and a few of them get up to help Reese. Sam feels like his head is swinging back and forth too slow, like watching a tennis ball swing from one end of the court to another.  
  
“Dean,” Sam slurs, still sitting on the edge of the bed between two girls. The rough, brown material of the comforter scratches the backs of his thighs and knees as Dean grabs him by the arm, yanks him up.  
  
“Come on,” Dean growls, glaring at the rest of the room; Sam’s still wearing his sneakers -- thankfully -- but the skirt’s too short, coming up somewhere mid-thigh, and the shirt too small, leaving half of his midriff bare. He barely has time to glance back at the room, where Reese nurses his face and the girls dote on him concernedly, before Dean’s pushing them out, down the stairs, through the crowded, smoky, sweaty kitchen, past the smell of alcohol and marijuana and the rumble of something, electronic pop maybe, blasting on the speakers.  
  
The cold night air is a shocking relief.  
  
Sam blinks and the world around him comes rushing back: there’re still a few people loitering on the lawn, drinking and chatting. The Impala’s parked on the curb, and Dean shrugs off his leather jacket, slinging it around Sammy but carefully not touching skin. Behind them is Thompson’s house, windows lit with buttery yellow light, door thrown open and empty bottles and cups strewn everywhere.  
  
This is how it goes: he went to Reese Thompson's house, his party, after school instead of heading straight home, he got fucked up and now he’s wearing this cheerleader’s outfit -- which he doesn’t even remember how he got on -- and now Dean’s here, and Sam’s here and --  
  
Sam doesn’t realize he’s shaking until Dean cups his hand around his elbow. The contact is grounding.  
  
“Sammy?” Dean is saying. “Sam?”  
  
Dean.  
  
Sam looks away from the house. “What -- what are you doing here?”  
  
“Chelsea had to go home because -- never mind that, what are _you_ doing here?”  
  
They’re in front of the Impala. Sam shakes his head slowly; he’s still losing little pockets of time.  
  
“Sam. Sam, look at me.”  
  
Dean’s face abruptly appears. “Hey, Sam, are you -- you’re shaking -- ”  
  
Sam tries shaking his head again but can’t seem to look away from Dean’s face.  
  
“ -- fuck, it’s a bad trip, look, just -- ”  
  
After taking a step closer, Dean draws the leather jacket tighter around Sam. The Impala is a solid weight behind Sam, and Dean a barrier in front of him. Something in Sam’s stomach turns; the world lurches and Sam reaches out blindly and grabs a fistful of Dean’s shirt. He’s drunk; he’s high; he’s -- whatever, he has to be, has to --  
  
“ -- just breathe, alright, alright, just --”  
  
Dean is -- Dean’s everything: he’s warm and solid and familiar --  
  
Dean’s hand touches Sam’s bare thigh and everything else is gone:  
  
All of the sudden, Sam’s eight years old again, at the park watching Dean touch the hem of Jessica Campbell’s skirt -- except this time Sam is Jessica and Dean’s hand is impossibly large -- fucking, huge -- and rough and warm, palm spanning over Sam’s cold, naked skin, the tips of his calloused fingers just brushing the bottom folds of Sam’s skirt; Sam’s voice is caught in his throat, he can’t fucking _breathe_ \--  
  
“ -- just breathe, in and out, yeah that’s it – ” Sam faintly registers the hint of anxiety in Dean’s voice.  
  
Sam isn’t _pretty_. There’re probably tufts of armpit hair sprouting out from where the crop top barely covers his shoulders and his skirt doesn't cover his knobbly knees or gangly legs --  
  
But Dean’s pressed up to him hot and close, his breath right on Sam’s neck, right there, right fucking there --  
  
“In and out, come on.”  
  
Sam breathes.  
  
He shudders, a full-body thing, and gasps for a breath of air, like he was freaking drowning or something.  
  
“That’s good,” Dean says, his face close and worried. “That’s real good, Sam.”  
  
Someone whistles and calls out, “Give us a show, Winchester!”  
  
Sam imagines this from their point of view, like Dean pressed up against Sam against the Impala, only two skinny legs and half a head of long brown hair visible.  
  
But everything else is -- irrelevant, like it doesn’t matter, like it can’t matter since they’re here, right now -- and there’s no fucking way that Dean can’t feel the bulge of Sam’s mostly hard cock against his hip; there’s no fucking way that they aren’t drunk with the smell of alcohol clinging to both of their breaths like a cloud; and there ain’t no fucking way Sam will ever, ever forget this: the span of Dean’s left arm around his waist, his right arm clutching at his bare thigh, his chest warm and solid and undeniably _Dean_ , something that Sammy knows, a body he’s been pressed up against when Travis takes Sam’s room and when Sam tries not to jack off in Dean’s bed. There ain’t no fucking way Sam can ever see a cheerleader’s skirt or the Impala or hear that stupid pop song someone’s put on blast without thinking of this moment again because --  
  
Because --  
  
Everyone’s drunk and it seems like entire block stinks of weed, like a cloud of it has come over all of them. Dean pulls back belatedly, his eyes blown, and Sam? Sam fucking _whimpers_ , pathetic from the loss of contact as air rushes in.  
  
And maybe --  
  
Maybe Dean thinks that Sam’s cold or that he needs that reassurance, because he stops with a hand’s width of space between their cheeks; and Sam still can’t see Dean’s face, can’t see his reaction --  
  
“Hey, what’s that mouth gonna do,” someone else jeers, “You gonna put on a show or what?”  
  
Dean whirls around, “Fuck off, Miller, if you know what’s good for you.”  
  
Sam finally croaks out, “Dean -- “  
  
And then the moment’s over: Dean throws one final dirty look behind him, swings open the passenger door and slides Sam in, carefully not making eye contact all the while.  
  
  
+  
  
  
It started like this:  
  
Sam is eight when he sees Dean kiss someone for the first time.  
  
Sam is eleven years old and he learns that sometimes touching himself feels good.  
  
Sam realizes that he’s got this -- this, _thing_ for his brother when he’s almost fifteen and someone stuffs him into a cheerleading outfit; and Dean finds him and touches his thigh and Sam shamefully jacks off thinking of it for a few months.  
  
Maybe more.  
  
Travis Sloan comes over one night a few days before Sam is fifteen; him and Dad take over the living room on a Thursday, sprawling out maps and tracks and empty tumblers. A grunt in Sam’s direction and a pointed look from his dad is all Sam needs to scurry out of the kitchen and into his room, grabbing his pajamas and toothbrush before knocking on Dean’s door.  
  
“Can I -- ” Sam begins, and then holds up his toothbrush in lieu of answering. “I think Travis is staying over tonight.”  
  
Dean shrugs and lets him in.  
  
Dean stays up later, messing around with his homework but not really doing it; Sam heads into the bathroom and emerges, teeth freshly brushed, face washed, and pajamas on, ready for bed.  
  
“Go ahead,” Dean says, not looking at Sam. He waves vaguely in the direction of the bed. “I have stuff to finish.” Dean doesn’t even ask if Sam wants to sleep on the floor. Sam hadn’t even brought his sleeping bag.  
  
Sam slides into the bed, smooth and easy, the sheets cool and worn to the touch.  
  
It’s hard for Sam to fall asleep with the lights on, and Dean knows this, so he finishes up pretty soon. Flicks off the lamp and heads into the bathroom.  
  
It’s almost completely dark when Dean finishes and kills the last of the bathroom lights. Sam scoots in further and turns the other direction. They’ve shared a bed before. This isn’t any different.    
  
But Sam’s never been this close to being fifteen.  
  
He wakes up in the middle of the night, in the middle of a dream. What he’d dreamt about, Sam will never know, because Dean’s leg is thrown over Sam’s thigh, his chest plastered against Sam’s back, effectively spooning him.  
  
Sam freezes.  
  
Dean’s breath still comes slow, shallow, and even, every indication of him still being asleep. And Sam’s skin is burning, his face flushed as he recognizes the hardness between his legs.  
  
More than that, he feels the solid line of Dean’s erection against the small of his back, hot and heavy and thick.  
  
The bed creaks and Sam forces himself to quiet his breathing as Dean’s breath hitches; Dean shifts forward, hips canting, the head of his cock touching Sam’s back through only Sam’s thin t-shirt and Dean’s pajama pants.    
  
Dean groans, and Sam feels it as well as hears it, a deep rumble against his back. The sound is unnaturally and eerily loud, ringing in Sam’s ears. Sam bites down a whimper.  
  
To move more than necessary, to wake up, would be to break -- whatever this is, because right now, Sam needs so much, so fucking much --  
  
He’s wearing his ragged and worn pajama shorts, the ones from maybe two years ago, far too small but just fucking right for Dean’s hand -- God, his goddamned hand again, warm and calloused and fuck -- splayed across Sam’s thigh.  
  
Dean’s breath comes faster as he tugs on Sam’s leg, right above the knee, pulling his leg up and back, so that his ass presses further into Dean’s cock, and shit; Sam imagines Dean hitching a slender leg over his shoulder, like that, like this --  
  
The bed rattles softly, bedsprings creaking.  
  
And holy God, holy fucking shit --  
  
Dean’s breath is warm and ragged on Sam’s skin, right where his neck meets his shoulder, in the pool of his clavicles, uneven and breathy -- _unh, unh, ugh_ \-- like it’s so fucking good, like he’s never had anything better.  
  
And Sam’s never been harder in his entire life; it feels like his skin is -- is boiling, like it’s burning and itching and he just needs to come so badly. He’s biting so hard on his lip he can feel the tang of blood, but Dean just keeps thrusting, jerking his hips, moving, rolling against the plane of Sam’s back, where his shirt rides up.  
  
A stuttered groan breaks out from between Dean’s lips. Sam can’t bring himself to look back now, and meet Dean’s gaze; so he squeezes his eyes shut and prays to God that Dean’s half-asleep or won’t remember this in the morning --  
  
Dean is his brother -- his _brother_ \--  
  
To open his eyes more than how they are only half-open now, to turn around, to breathe any louder would be -- wouldn’t be _right_ , Sam can’t --  
  
Dean’s hips stutter against Sam’s back and four nails dig crescents into Sam’s shoulder as Dean comes, his mouth open and hot against Sam’s back.  
  
Dean’s hand wraps around Sam’s cock and then that’s fucking it; it’s like Sam had forgotten he could touch himself. Because now, Sam’s thrusting desperately, humping the bedsheets and Dean’s hand, like a dog, like a bitch in heat, like he’s whining and moaning and groaning like he’s never going to come like this, never ever going to feel like this again --  
  
Sam grinds his teeth together and squeezes his eyes shut as he comes.  
  
Dean’s breathing evens out again, shallow.  
  
He’s sleeping.  
  
Sam’s eyes suddenly feel like they weigh a thousand tons; he half-heartedly wipes himself off with the bedsheets, letting his eyes drift shut.  
  
It feels like this moment isn’t real, like the hot dampness against Sam’s back isn’t really there, like this is all a fevered dream --  
  
Because here’s the thing: Sam has thought about this so many times. It’s like a worn memory, rubbed thin around the edges, and now that someone’s finally plopped it into Sam’s lap it’s so familiar it isn’t really real. Or something like that.  
  
And that’s the last coherent thought that runs across Sam’s mind before he slips into sleep.  
  
The next morning, Sam wakes up first, feeling crusty and dry. He heads into Dean’s cramped bathroom to shower.  
  
When he finishes, he wraps one towel around his waist and grabs a second to tossle his hair. As he shakes water droplets from his eyes, Dean ambles in, rubbing his eyes.  
  
“Did you use all of the hot water,” Dean asks. He sounds -- he sounds normal. There’s no way --  
  
“I -- no,” Sam says.  
  
There’s no way Dean doesn’t remember -- and even if he didn’t, he would’ve woken to the same evidence in his underwear as Sam did --  
  
Dean grunts. “Good.”  
  
Irreparable, irrevocable, irreversible, Jesus, get a fucking dictionary over here --  
  
Through the thin walls, the sound of Travis’ voice, mumbling something to John, reverberates into Dean’s tiny bathroom.  
  
Dean bumps Sam’s hip as he moves to get into the shower, and that’s it.  
  
Sam swallows the awkward lump in his throat and begins to brush his teeth. Fine. Normal.  
  
  
+  
  
  
Sam turns fifteen when their dad starts taking longer trips. Before, it was only a weekend, maybe a few days. Now, they’re old enough. Or -- or something like that.  
  
Dad leaves the house empty with the keys in Dean’s pocket, a peaceful sort of quiet that doesn’t come ‘round often.  
  
Dad’s gone for three days in the springtime. His trip’s supposed to be six days.  
  
“Get up,” Dean swings open Sam’s door on the first day of spring break. “I gotta get out of this dump. We’re going on a trip.”  
  
And of course -- friggin’, of course, why would there be any doubt -- Sam says yes.  
  
So they get in the Impala, piling on blankets and towels and chips and water into the trunk and bringing a few days’ worth of clothes for their trip. Dean blasts music as they drive out of town, windows rolled down, wind carding their hair, as smooth as you please.  
  
“Where we going?” Sam asks loudly, over the wind and music.  
  
“You’ll see,” Dean says. He throws a careless smile over his shoulder and leans his left elbow onto the side of the Impala. His lips quirk and he turns away, artlessly, carelessly, like -- like it doesn’t fucking matter, like it’s easy as pie.  
  
The road unravels for as far as the eye can see, unspooling over flat grasslands and through hills and tree stands. They drive for a few hours, maybe more; Sam can’t tell. The thrum of the road beneath them becomes familiar and Sam’s stomach settles enough so that he can lean back, recline and hover between sleep and wakefulness.  
  
Sam doesn’t realize he’s actually fallen asleep until they’ve reached their destination.  
  
“You’re fucking joking,” is the first thing Sam says.  
  
The Impala is a nice car, not really meant for off-roading. They are, however, at the moment, off the road -- as in, on a dirt track, not on asphalt or cement or concrete.  
  
Around them, the sun peers down relentlessly. Several hills, a mix of beige and taupe spotted with green shrubbery and what seems like tumbleweed, rise up around them.  
  
“Just this way,” Dean says breezily, pulling up to what appears to be a small ranch, sitting squat right underneath the sun.  
  
The Impala rumbles through a space between two skinny, gnarled trees and a dilapidated hut of sorts. A wire trips and an alarm goes off.  
  
The side door of the shack, conveniently facing the Impala’s passenger window, cracks open. “How can I help you boys,” a middle-aged man, tanned and leathery-looking, peeks out and asks.  
  
“Two for the night,” Dean says confidently. “We’ll pay on the way out.”  
  
Now, here’s the thing: Dean doesn’t do shorts. He doesn’t _do_ tennis shoes or basketball shorts or baseball caps or anything like that. So after they’ve driven for about a minute to a plateau overlooking what resembles the skeleton of a trail down a winding valley, and Dean parks the car and pulls out two pairs of hiking boots, Sam rightfully says, “What the fuck.”  
  
They hike down the gently sloping hills, the sound of shoes crunching against gravel and the occasional bird cry the only sound accompanying them. At one point, Dean stops them to look out down the valley and the silence is unnaturally still.  
  
Tell you the truth -- the valleys melt into hills melt into a single trail meandering down toward the creek winding through the canyon. It’s hard to discern one moment from the next. The day blends into this melange of sun and salt and sweat until they reach this cold creek, rippling over moss and stone.  
  
Yeah, so it’s been said before, but here’s how this starts, this time:  
  
They drive for two hours to these hot springs out of town, where they have to park at old man Bowen’s ranch, who charges them for the night. They park at the top of the canyon and hike down to the valley, where the creek winds through for miles on miles on miles.  
  
What they talk about, Sam doesn’t remember.  
  
But the conversation is good, and the views better -- they make it down to the hot springs before the sun’s at its zenith. There, they wade across an icy creek, cold from melted mountain snow, and find the hot springs nestled between sun-baked rocks, right next to the stream.  
  
So it’s pretty fucking awesome, yeah, since they get to horse around and jump from the cold creek to the bubbling hot springs and back and forth and it feels like a shock, especially the cold, like each breath is his first breath, the very first time he’s breathing -- clean and fresh and new -- that’s how cold it is.  
  
And they sprawl across the sun-baked rocks, like lizards, the wet mountain water on their skin and the sun glinting down on them; they pull out the sandwiches that Dean had packed and Dean procures a six-pack, which they float in the water so that when they pull it out, the beer’s chilled. It’s simple. Perfect.  
  
(Years from now, this is what Sam will remember. He will look back on years and years of memories and wish that he could freeze them, stand them still in time so that he might go back and relive them again, like soaking himself in the idyllic, honey-smooth, warmth of the past. This is the moment that will make him wish for a simpler time, for days of soaking in the mountain water and bronzed skin and clear skies and sun and sun and sun.)  
  
But in the moment, the most salient thing is this:  
  
After they finish out their day, Dean takes off his enormous backpack and pulls out a sleeping tent and two foam pads. They set up right there, at the elbow of the creek like the friggin’ white trash they are, and camp out for the night.  
  
Both of them are tired -- their muscles sore and worn out from both the hike and swimming in the river, from both climbing rocks and enduring the shock, over and over again, of icy cold water -- so they pitch their tent and climb in, barely noticing their cramped surroundings.  
  
Though apparently, they aren’t tired enough, because Sam wakes with Dean’s hand rucking up his shirt, fingernails grazing across the fine hairs of his navel. Sam stills, squeezing his eyes shut and forcing himself to breathe evenly. Dean’s breath is impossibly hot against Sam’s neck -- and fuck, that’s hot -- and the smell of them, this musk, this hint of sex in the air hangs over them like a cloud.  
  
Sam shifts and then Dean wakes up -- at least it seems like it, because he jerks and freezes, before pulling himself away. The cold air rushes in between them, and Sam doesn’t remember falling asleep again.  
  
What he does remember though, is that having been restless during the night, the next day he’s exhausted after the hike back out of the canyon. They pay old man Bowen and peel out of the desert.  
  
On the drive back, Sam crawls into the backseat and sprawls out there, loose-limbed and sleepy as he drifts in and out of consciousness, as the Impala eats up the miles, rolling out over the road.  
  
At one point, Sam is shaken awake. When he blinks, he takes in the fading pastel sky beyond the windows of the Impala, and a terrible ass crick in his neck from where he fell asleep at an awkward angle.  
  
“Hey,” Dean says. They’re parked behind a gas station, which seems pretty much abandoned save for a lone silhouette near the checkout counter. There’s dirt and mountains all around, dry and brown and endless. Sam looks back at Dean. Dean’s got another cold beer in his hands -- probably got it from the station while Sam was knocked out.  
  
“Hi,” Sam croaks, voice hoarse with disuse. He sits up half-heartedly, his back leaning against the window of the backseat. He looks past his knees, past his toes, and meets Dean’s gaze.  
  
Dean’s mouth twists. He looks like he’s about to say something. Pauses.  
  
“Want a beer?” Dean asks eventually, although Sam can tell this wasn’t what he wanted to say originally.  
  
“I -- alright.”  
  
Sam draws his legs in from where they’re spread out across the backseat as Dean slips in, sits on the opposite end from where Sam’s situated himself, next to Sam’s feet.  
  
Sam’s heart is beating too fast in his chest; it’s still light out, although the sky’s dusty pink and purple, bleeding color into the Impala, into Dean’s cheeks and, the alcohol -- that’s the only reason that they’re flushed -- it’s not like --  
  
It’s like Sam’s so caught up in trying to keep himself from reacting that he forgets that he’s here, instead, and that sounds weird, but it means that Sam doesn’t register that Dean’s moving until a hand pushes out Sam’s knee, so that one leg remains propped up on the backseat, and the other falls off the seat, knee brushing against the back of the passenger’s seat.  
  
Dean scoots into the open space and hands over the beer he’d been nursing.  
  
For a second, Sam is blinded with the image of Dean leaning over and grabbing a fistful of Sam’s shirt, yanking him close; he imagines the feel of his jeans stretching tight as Dean pushes his knees apart, crawls into the v of his legs, his hand on Sam’s waist, his hip, his thigh.  
  
Sam takes the beer. “Thanks,” he says.  
  
Dean goes, “Sure.”  
  
Dean looks at him for a moment more, then ducks out of the car. “Come on,” he says, “We got a long drive ahead of us.”  
  
  
+  
  
  
Sam turns sixteen, and he gets to drive the Impala.  
  
Two weeks he’s been sixteen and then he swallows down his nerves and asks Julia to the movies.  
  
He doesn’t remember what film it is, or how good it is, but afterwards, Sam drives them up the hill behind the park and parks there. They sit and talk for a bit, until Julia interrupts the conversation with a shy smile.  
  
They go into the backseat and Sam’s fucking nervous, he’s never kissed anyone before -- but Julia pulls him close first, and presses her mouth against his. He belatedly closes his eyes and leans into her touch.  
  
He works up the courage to run his tongue across the line of her lips and she opens eagerly, like a sigh unfolding. She makes a soft noise and Sam shifts a bit closer.  
  
At one point, his hand slips and brushes her waist; she pauses and pulls back to put her hand over his. “This okay?” she asks and Sam nods.  
  
She leads the way, then, takes his left hand and puts on her knee, pulling it up her thigh, under her skirt. Sam’s heart pounds in his chest as he fumbles a bit, his tongue catching awkwardly on her teeth.  
  
“Like this,” she murmurs against his mouth, cupping the back of his head with one hand, and guiding his fingers with the other. Sam slips two fingers into her, and she’s unbelievably warm and wet, her cunt and her mouth both so impossibly good. He thumbs and moves and presses like how she shows him, and she breathes hot and heavy into his mouth; it’s so good, it’s so fucking good --  
  
Julia’s breath catches and her fingernails curl into the nape of Sam’s neck as she comes. After a long second, she hums contentedly and presses her cheek against his mouth, works her hand into Sam’s pants.  
  
Sam’s half-hard and he bites on his lip to keep from groaning as she touches him. Her hands are soft. Deliberate in movement.  
  
He comes embarrassingly fast, eyes screwed shut and one hand clenched in a fist on his thigh. She grins, blindingly bright, and Sam smiles back.  
  
They talk a bit more after cleaning up, on the drive back home. He drops her off and kisses her goodnight, in the way he wishes he had before. She smiles, soft and sweet and gentle. Like honey. Golden.  
  
Sam comes home and washes his hands. Dean’s on the couch watching TV. Sam considers joining him, then thinks better of it. He heads into his room to crack open a practice SAT.  
  
  
+  
  
  
Sam turns seventeen, and the Winchesters move to Arizona.  
  
Not a big city, like Phoenix, or Tucson. They move some distance from Flagstaff, by an Indian reservation. Sam’s in his last year of high school, finishing up standardized testing and Dean is twenty-one years old.  
  
It isn’t really that special; it’s a lot of phone lines, endless highway, a white Ford truck barreling down the road. It’s big trucks carrying tanks for gas, static TV, the feeling of moving from place to place while they’re in reality living in the same mobile home, eating gas station food more often than not.  
  
Sam spends most of his time working on college applications and doesn’t get out much. He joins the dismal school theater production out of a vague sense of pity more than anything. John works on the reservation, is called out to deal with mountain lions and the like. Dean drinks a lot, goes out a lot, comes home smelling like something dank and musky and oddly thrilling all at once.  
  
The school year passes by fast; Sam finishes his college apps and it feels like he finally has time to breathe.  
  
That same weekend, to celebrate, Dean drags Sam to a party.  
  
It’s kind of ironic, if you think about it, that Dean has more friends from the high school than Sam does. But that lends itself to Dean easing their social interactions a bit as they make their way to a house party that Friday, Dean in front, all charm and swagger, Sam behind, reluctantly tagging along. It’s more of Dean’s idea of a celebration.  
  
Anyway, they get kinda fucked up pretty fast, since Dean’s acting exceptionally reckless tonight and Sam quickly loses track of time. But this he knows: a pretty girl comes up to them sometime after they pass around a joint for the third time, settles in between him and Dean on the couch and starts talking nice.  
  
Dean's chatting her up real good, smiling and laughing in all the right places. And she turns around to speak to Sam a coupla times during the conversation too, which is nice. But the point is, it's no surprise when Dean ups the charm, cocking his head slightly to the right (like a predator) and drawling, "So you going anywhere after this?"  
  
What _is_ a surprise, is her -- Melissa, her name is Melissa -- crawling smile as she looks between Sam and Dean, murmurs something sly and flirtatious and clever. But Sam doesn’t hear it because he’s too absorbed in the way Dean gets all flustered, blinks rapidly as he struggles to recover.  
  
“Come on, Winchester,” Melissa smirks at Dean, “Don’t tell me you’ve never done it before.” She glances back at Sam and smiles, soft and easy. Sam smiles back and she puts a hand on his thigh. “So I’ll just take your brother here -- ”  
  
“Alright, alright, tiger,” Dean smirks right back and then they’re all smiling and then Melissa takes Sam’s hand and pulls him up off the couch -- the world spins for a second -- and then they’re heading up the stairs, Melissa’s long hair brushing Sam’s shoulder and Dean hot on their heels.  
  
That’s how it begins, Sam supposes -- that is, with a threesome, as you do. He doesn’t remember much the next day because he was crossed as fuck, but he wakes up, face smashed into the carpet and head ringing with a massive fucking hangover.  
  
He also wakes up with this: memories of Sam’s mouth pressed against Melissa’s hair as she writhes in his lap, her back to his chest, her ass to his cock, as Dean eats her out, licking and sucking and biting while Dean’s hands clench Sam’s thigh. He remembers being drunk as hell, so much that he had held Dean’s hand, clamped down on Dean’s fingers like a fucking vice, while Melissa sucked his orgasm out of him. Sounds nasty, but that’s literally what it was. He remembers being so high that he couldn’t stop staring at Dean’s mouth, the color of the corner of his lip, the jut of his hipbones as he’d pistoned into Melissa. Sam remembers clutching her, steadying her as Dean fucked her, his lips parted and his face screwed up in concentration.  
  
As the night comes back to him in a mildly humiliating rush, Sam’s stomach lurches, and he stumbles into the nearest bathroom so as not to barf out his guts on the carpet.  
  
Sam must be a lightweight or something, because, after retching up the remaining alcohol in his stomach into the toilet, he returns to the bedroom only to reacquaint his face with the carpet -- and pass out for what must be a solid hour.  
  
The sound of pleasant laughter wakes him the second time.  
  
“ -- mind him, he can’t hold a drink to save his life.”  
  
More feminine laughter. “A sweetheart, though.”  
  
“Mhm.”  
  
Flirtatiously: “He’s got quite a mouth on him, too.”  
  
“Think so? I’ve taught him everything he knows.”  
  
“Oh, I bet.” Laughter and the sound of a door swinging open. “If I had a brother like that, I’d think of any excuse to keep ‘im close.”  
  
Dean splutters. “I mean -- ”  
  
“Don’t trip, babe, I just -- ”  
  
At that moment, Sam’s stomach twists again, and he cracks his eyes open to move towards the bathroom, his tongue feeling like sandpaper in his mouth, and his feet like lead.  
  
Melissa laughs good-naturedly and Dean grumbles about Sam being a lightweight but they both hoist Sam up and help him get a face full of toilet-bowl reek as he throws up once more.  
  
The two of them are surprisingly nice about it -- maybe it’s not surprising for Melissa, but Sam doesn’t even know her, so how’s he supposed to know; and for Dean, well, Sam guesses Dean’s just angling for round two.  
  
But Sam doesn’t think much of it before his hangover bests him and he passes out on the bed. The last thing he hears is Melissa’s tinkling laughter as she leaves, a hand on her hip, and “See ya, sugar!” on her lips before the door slams shut.  
  
It’s not like Dean to linger any longer with one-night stands than, well, the night. So although Dean says he usually doesn’t go for second rounds, it’s not entirely unwarranted when Melissa comes ‘round to their place when John goes on a hunting trip.  
  
In the torpor of this post-college application but pre-decision release time, Sam’s in his room one evening, looking into the logistics of housing (he just finished reading up on Northwestern, and is now onto Berkeley), lost to the rest of the world. Perhaps this -- the fascination of reading into residential houses -- is why Sam doesn’t realize Melissa’s knocked on the door, and has situated herself in Dean’s bed.  
  
Inevitably, this ignorance leads Sam to walk in on them, when Dean’s just beginning to shuck off his boxers.  
  
Her bra-clad breasts heaving nicely, Melissa leans back against the headboard, “Oh,” she pants, with a wolfish smile. The smell of marijuana clings to the air, like a thin veil, and there’re a few empty bottles of Corona next to the bed. “Sam. Come to join us?”  
  
Dean rolls off of Melissa’s legs, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He leans back on an elbow, body open so that Sam’s able to see the line of Dean’s cock, half-hard and thick against his thigh. Sam’s mouth dries.  
  
Something in Dean’s gaze -- maybe the hard look of his eyes or the determined set of his jaw -- reminds Sam of when a time when they were just boys, when Sam followed Dean and his older friends to the park once, only to have Dean reprimand him when they were home alone. The memory resurfaces now because Sam wonders if it’d be rude to join them sober, if Dean’d have a thing or two to tell him when Melissa eventually, invariably heads out, leaving Sam and Dean alone. He wonders what Dean thinks of him, what he would think of him.  
  
Melissa coaxes him, “Come on then,” but Sam can’t even look at her; he’s only looking at Dean, and hell if he’s being obvious right now; he’s just waiting, like he always does, for Dean to lead the way, to take charge, for Dean to tell him -- yes or no, come in or get out.  
  
An unreadable expression forms across Dean’s face. “We’re a package deal,” Dean drawls, turning his face up towards Melissa, “Don’t you know?”  
  
Laughing sweetly, Melissa brushes her hair out of her face, beckons with two fingers invitingly. Sam steps delicately over her black panties and Dean’s boxers and shirt, which decorate the carpet, toward the bed, where Dean and Melissa wait.  
  
Melissa’s fist reaches out to grab the front of Sam’s Star Trek t-shirt, pulling him in so that their mouths may meet; vaguely Sam registers that Dean’s tugging on his belt, his jeans. Sam pulls away from Melissa long enough so that he can peel off Spock, and send it along with the rest of the discarded clothing.  
  
She kisses him with an open mouth, slick and fevered and hot, tugs him close so that his cock slips between her legs. Sam tastes the alcohol thick on her tongue; his hips jerk involuntarily and Sam brushes up against Dean’s hand, where he’s working his fingers into her. Melissa’s already close from Dean’s mouth, so her body quivers and quakes as she comes, back arching into Dean’s hand and the marble column of her throat glistening under Sam’s mouth.  
  
“Fuck,” she pants, eyes half-lidded. Dean mouths at her breasts and undoes her bra. His hands, tanned and calloused, roam across her pale skin -- across the curves of her breasts, down the expanse of her flat stomach, the smooth slopes of her thighs. Sam leans back a bit, on his side so that his cock barely brushes her hip; he intends to watch because he thinks that Dean will fuck her now.  
  
But then Melissa gently pushes away Dean’s hands. “I came already,” she slurs, “Let me and Sammy make you feel good.”  
  
“Yeah?” Dean watches her like a hawk, his thumb rubbing circles above her knee. He looks unwaveringly serious. He hasn’t looked at Sam once.  
  
“Mm,” she smiles and winks at Sam. To Dean, she goes, “Hands on the headboard mister.”  
  
“Yessum,” he replies easily, grabbing onto the headboard behind him and situating himself so that his back’s on the mattress. His muscles ripple and all of the sudden, Sam’s heart leaps to his throat, pounding out an unsteady rhythm. He swallows around the knot in his throat.  
  
“You keep those there,” Melissa says to Dean. Then, she takes one of Sam’s hands and sucks his fingers, licking his palm until his skin’s slick. She guides that hand around Dean’s cock, wrapping Sam’s slick fingers around the base --  
  
And Sam’s fucking done; his blood’s roaring in his ears and he can’t look, can’t possibly even glance at Dean’s face. He just grips and jacks the base of Dean’s cock slowly, as Melissa bends over to take the head into her mouth. Dean’s leg is blood-red warm where it touches Sam, Dean’s groaning gently, and Sam can’t think about anything other than the solid weight of his body, of his cock in Sam’s hand, the same cock that’s rutted against Sam before, those nights --  
  
There’s a lewd pop as Melissa comes up. Her hand brushes Sam’s as she starts jacking Dean as well, so Sam pulls off, watches the head of Dean’s cock disappear and then reappear in Melissa’s fist. Sam looks up for a second and Melissa looks at him so expectantly that he flushes, deep, dark red, much more than he should. Sam looks at Dean, who’s head is thrown back, facing up at the ceiling, hips lifting what seems to be involuntarily off the bed as he tries thrusting into Melissa’s hand, seeking more friction.  
  
Melissa’s drunk and Dean’s probably high; she keeps looking at Sam like that and Dean keeps making these choked noises and Sam can’t fucking think -- can’t look away from Dean’s cock. Dean’s not looking anyway so Sam --  
  
Here’s the thing: Sam’s thought about it before. Once, in Wyoming, he’d walked into the locker room after school because he forgot something and saw Reese Thompson leaning against the wall while a cheerleader was on her knees in front of him. He’s overheard Dean talking with his friends before and he’s even thought about this -- for Dean -- before.  
  
Here’s another thing: the way that Sam likes Dean isn’t normal. When he was sixteen, Sam thought about Dean more than Julia. Sam knows that -- whatever this is, he’s way in over his head. At least Dean passes off as… as normal, right? He goes out with girls every weekend, gets more action than the rest of the high school football team combined, because he’s _Dean Winchester_. That’s what’s expected. And what’s that thing the guys would say? A mouth is a mouth. And to Dean, that’s just what it is.  
  
So.  
  
Sam ignores the hammering of his heart in his chest; his palms grow sweaty and cold as he scoots down the mattress a little further. Melissa hums in approval as Sam puts his hand over hers. Sam’s head is spinning, whirling, it feels like the world’s unsteady underneath him -- and then he leans down awkwardly, gripping Dean’s cock far too tight -- he feels like oceanwater during an earthquake, oh God --  
  
Dean’s salty and warm to the touch, his cock girthy on Sam’s tongue. It’s… strange, because -- there’s a cock in his mouth, blunt and thick, but Sam does his best, sucking and tonguing the head like Melissa did, attempting to take down a little more with each bob.  
  
He’s just starting to find his rhythm when Sam feels hands on his head -- and what happened to Dean leaving his hands on the headboard? Sam looks up -- Dean makes this strange, strangled noise through his teeth as he meets his gaze; Dean looks _pained_ , like his gaze makes it look like he’s been flayed open, like it’s the first time they’ve ever looked at each other in this way, it’s such a raw look that Sam freezes -- at the same moment that Dean’s grip tightens against Sam’s hair. Dean suddenly thrusts up, and then everything happens at once:  
  
As Dean’s cock hits the back of his throat, the grip that Dean has on his head pinning him in place, Sam chokes --  
  
“Fuck,” Dean blurts out, and jerks back. But Dean’s close, so fucking close; Sam can feel his cock pulsing and his thighs quivering -- so Sam bobs down one more time. Sam’s hand shoots up to keep Dean’s fingers entwined in his hair, guiding his head.  
  
“Sam,” Dean hisses, and _fuck_ , just hearing Dean say his name like that, like this, right now -- Sam ruts mindlessly into the hard line of Dean’s leg, uncaring of the fact that he’s acting like the horny teenager he is.  
  
Melissa -- Sam had forgotten she was even there -- takes pity on him and reaches around to wrap a slick hand around his dick; he thrusts artlessly into her hand as Dean tightens his grip on Sam’s head, one palm cupping the nape of Sam’s neck.  
  
Dean’s properly fucking his mouth now; the head of his dick touches the spongy back of Sam’s neck and Sam _gurgles_. Tears spring up to blur his vision; he blinks it back as Dean groans, the noise throaty and deep, his fingers twisting into Sam’s scalp.  
  
The come that suddenly floods Sam’s throat is salty, hot, and bitter. Sam gags reflexively and jerks away, spit and come slopping onto Dean’s dick and on Sam’s mouth. Sam coughs and it’s nasty because he can feel the slickness on his chin and bottom lip; he can’t think about it more than a second because then Melissa’s turning him, pulling him close, her hand working fast, even, tight around him.  
  
And then Sam’s orgasm hits him as a surprise, a choked moan making its way out of his throat as Melissa strokes him through it.  
  
When Sam comes back to his senses, Melissa’s kissing his neck, her hand stroking his thigh; Sam’s leaning back against Dean’s knee, and one of Dean’s hands is around his right hip.  
  
“Good?” Melissa murmurs.  
  
Dean makes an appreciative noise before leaning over to swipe a few tissues from the nightstand next to the bed. He makes a perfunctory pass, swiping up most of the spunk, before tossing the used tissue carelessly aside. “Quite.”  
  
Sam settles back against the pillows behind him, the weight of Dean’s arm on his chest, and one of Melissa’s legs entwined with his as Sam lies next to Dean on the bed, Melissa sprawled on top of them. “So,” she says sleepily, “this package deal. There a discount option or what?”  
  
Dean snorts. “Stick around and find out.”  
  
“Oh,” she says, leaning against Sam’s arm as Sam’s eyes begin to droop, a testament of his fatigue and their late night -- or would it be morning? -- before. “I will.”  
  
But like many people in the world of the Winchester family, she doesn’t.  
  
That is, she leaves a little later that day --  
  
In fact, Sam wakes to the sound of her phone ringing. She turns it off quickly; Sam’s tired and doesn’t make any move to signal that he’s awake, but Dean moves. “It’s fine,” she half-whispers because she thinks that Sam’s still asleep. “I’ll let myself out. If you move you’ll wake him.” Dean makes a token protest that’s lost as Melissa collects her things and leaves. The bed sheets rustle. The door closes behind her and Dean moves closer, his breath against the back of Sam’s neck.  
  
\-- but she also, like their mother, Julia, like Travis, like so many others, also leaves their lives. Not because they had a falling out, or anything purposeful like that. It’s just that -- the way they live their lives isn’t conducive to stable relationships. Dean doesn’t pick up one too many phone calls, doesn’t frequent the same bar at the same time for anything to become any more than distance.  
  
They move too often, see too many people, care too little about maintaining the illusion of whatever -- whatever that was, what this is.  
  
Except --  
  
Except for Sam and Dean.  
  
It’s always them, Sam and Dean, Dean and Sam, the two of them left with each other in the end.  
  
Until it isn’t, anyway.  
  
  
+  
  
  
Sam turns eighteen years old.  
  
John’s up to his neck in paperwork or something -- Sam doubts he even remembers the day -- but Dean’s been pestering him about his birthday for a few weeks now.  
  
(“C’mon, Sammy, there must be _something_.”  
  
“No, Dean. I told you, I don’t want anything big.”  
  
“I can take you out. We can go to King’s Club, up in Flagstaff.”  
  
“Dammit, Dean, I told you -- I don’t want -- ”  
  
“Or we could go to Vegas. I’ve always wanted to go.”  
  
“Look -- I just… ”  
  
“… Alright.”)  
  
Anyway, they settle for something less garish than Vegas and less conspicuous than a gentlemen’s club.  
  
After Sam gets out of school, Dean picks him up in the Impala, a six-pack of beer in the trunk and slow rock playing on the speakers.  
  
Past empty gas stations and flickering motels, barreling down a two-lane road that stretches on endlessly, by dirt fields and silos, they drive on.  
  
Eventually Dean pulls out on the side of the road, just as darkness begins to creep in on the horizon. Around them are cactus and tumbleweed, a brown-gray-red stretch of dry land that’s unforgiving as it is beautiful.  
  
They settle against the hood of the Impala, leaning against the car as Dean pulls out the beer and a bong, rips right there as they watch the sunset. There’s not much to talk about but the silence is warm and comfortable. The smell of weed surrounds them and Sam pries open another beer.  
  
Dean exhales, long and slow. The smoke curls around him as he looks at the horizon; Sam can’t help but think that he looks like one of those old Hollywood models from a black and white picture, James Dean, Marlon Brando like.  
  
After finishing the bowl, Dean asks, “Good?”  
  
Sam doesn’t trust himself to speak. He nods and hands back the bong.  
  
Dean drives them back, headlights on and music just on this side of uncomfortably loud. When they reach the camper again, the lack of lights suggests that their dad’s already asleep; Dean parks the Impala and they creep into the trailer quietly.  
  
Dean’s jacket is crooked and his hair’s all mussed up from the wind; Sam’s high and can’t help a snort from bubbling up at the sight of Dean attempting to creep through the house.  
  
Dean whips around and glares at Sam. He goes, “Sh,” but then they’re both lost. Tipsy and clumsy, Dean grins and swings an arm around Sam’s shoulders, knocking into each other and the thin walls as they stumble into Dean’s room.  
  
It feels so easy for Sam to nudge Dean forward, so that Dean falls on the bed, legs spread open and inviting, his gaze undeniably fond. It feels so easy for Sam to lean forward, to kneel in the bracket of Dean’s thighs, curl five fingers into Dean’s shirt and kiss him with an open mouth.  
  
They’ve never kissed before.  
  
Sam thinks he might never kiss again, not unless it’s like this, like this with Dean, because everything is slow and warm and languid. Dean tastes like everything Sam can’t have, like weed and alcohol and something undoubtedly bittersweet. Dean kisses like Sam’s a girl, gentle and inviting in a way that their relationship is not; and _shit_ , Sam knows they never do anything unless Dean’s fucked up, that Dean’s messed up right now and he can’t tell right from wrong, but --  
  
But Dean’s tugging at the hem of Sam’s shirt, bare knuckles dragging across the small of Sam’s back, fingers slipping underneath the waist of Sam’s jeans, and hell if Sam’s gonna stop him.  
  
An abruptly loud groan rips its way out of Sam’s throat, he can’t help it, as Dean’s hands wander to his ass, gripping his cheeks; embarrassingly, Sam bucks forward involuntarily, his hips jerking into Dean’s thighs.  
  
“Sh,” Dean mumbles, pulling away.  “Dad’ll hear you.”  
  
Sam whimpers. With the door open -- and it’s still open because Sam can’t bring himself away from the heat of Dean’s body to close it -- all it would take is a noise too loud to wake up John, who would then only need to be within a yard of the room to smell the musty dank.  
  
Dean clamps a hand over Sam’s mouth; his other hand’s still on Sam’s ass, and it pulls Sam close so that their cocks drag in this delicious slide. Dean twists them onto the bed and tugs off their pants. They come like that -- bare legs slotting together, rocking dangerously slow, Dean’s hand clamped over Sam’s mouth and Sam’s eyes sliding shut.  
  
A few days later, they get into a fight.  
  
It’s not really abnormal. They’ve both been itching for an argument, can’t really resist it, something in their blood that’s hardwired to prepare them for confrontation.  
  
A few days later, John needs Dean to get this special wire for a new trap. Dean has to drive halfway down to Phoenix, and drags Sam along for the ride.  
  
The anxious wait for college acceptances has put Sam on edge. He’s moody throughout the ride and ignores Dean’s attempts at conversation.  
  
“ -- and she said no, can you believe that?”  
  
Sam makes a noncommittal noise, looking out of his window. He hadn’t been listening.  
  
“Hey,” Dean says, steering with one hand. He takes the other and smacks Sam’s left arm. “Are you listening to me?”  
  
Sam goes, “Why would I do that?”  
  
Dean says, “Look, I don’t know why you’ve been in this mood lately -- ”  
  
Sam scowls, “What do you mean you don’t know? It’s only -- ”  
  
“ -- never tell me anything, and expect me to understand -- ”  
  
“ -- been working for for four years, Dean, how can I not be _in this mood_?”  
  
“ _Hey_ \-- ”  
  
“ -- and besides, it’s not like you or Dad understand -- ”  
  
Dean snaps, “Hey! Be grateful.”  
  
“I’m just _asking_ that you understand for once what I’m trying to do -- ”  
  
“We understand, alright? It’s just, you’re making it seem like the end of the world if you don’t end up going where you want to go, and it’s not, alright? So suck it up, Sammy.”  
  
Sam groans loudly, thunking his head back against the headrest behind him.  
  
Dean swerves off the road, pulling into the dirt pull-out beside the road.  
  
Sam goes, “What -- ?”  
  
“You think we don’t understand?” Dean turns around to face Sam, his eyes hard. “Alright, fine, we don’t understand. We don’t understand why you gotta act like getting into college is the end all, be all -- ”  
  
“ _Exactly_ ,” Sam spits out, and he knows he sounds petulant right now, but he’s angry; Dean’s got him riled up and he’s got to get out, these past few weeks have been building up --  
  
Sam swings open the passenger door just as Dean begins talking again.  
  
“ -- hey, _hey!_ ”  
  
Dean follows suit, climbing out of the driver’s seat and swinging the door shut. Sam only has time to watch Dean round the front of the Impala before Dean’s up in his space, grabbing onto Sam’s collar and manhandling him against the Impala.  
  
“But we _do_ understand that it means a lot to you, okay? Why else would I drive you to Science Olympiad and Academic League and on and on every day? Why else -- ”  
  
Dean’s absolutely, one-hundred percent correct. But this argument is more than that. This argument also comes in the slant of Dean’s hips as he hovers over Sam; in the white of his knuckles as he holds Sam’s collar; in the way that Sam’s blood pounds traitorously. The fantasties are already playing over in Sam’s head -- the way Dean would yank open the door to the backseat, push them both inside --  
  
So it comes as a surprise when Dean suddenly stops talking and instead hisses, “And you’re not even listening to what I say.”  
  
Sam can’t stop looking at Dean’s mouth. “Can you blame me?”  
  
Dean _snarls,_  and Sam yelps, tries to wrestle his way out of Dean’s grip when he tries to grab Sam’s shoulders, his neck --  
  
Sam ends up half in a chokehold and, when he tries to bend and wiggle his way out, Dean only grabs onto the back of his shirt, pulling him back so that Sam ends up with his cheek against Dean’s hip, nose bumping against the metal button of Dean’s jeans.  
  
Dean bucks his hips and Sam can already see that he’s more than a little hard. Dean’s fingers are twisted into the back of Sam’s collar and Sam grunts as he yanks and sinks down to his knees, jeans slamming into the dirt and gravel underneath them.  
  
“Sam -- ” Dean starts, and this is fucking terrifying; Sam’s heart is pounding out of his ribcage, his head more than a little dizzy with the thought of them doing this, here, stone-cold sober with no alcohol or weed to ease the way --  
  
Dean goes, “Don’t -- ”  
  
Dean doesn’t get to do this, he doesn’t get to pretend; he’s -- they’re in this, they started this fucking thing and so Sam scrabbles at Dean’s zipper, undoes his jeans and pulls out Dean’s cock, prays to God that Dean can’t see his hands trembling --  
  
For all of his protests, Dean’s dick seems pretty on board, curling thick into Sam’s mouth; and Dean twines his fingers into Sam’s hair, cupping his head. Dean thrusts experimentally and Sam can’t look up, can’t look at Dean so instead he’s looking at this thatch of hair at the base of Dean’s cock; Sam closes his eyes and slackens his jaw in invitation.  
  
Something in Dean must give way, because then Dean’s pushing into Sam’s mouth, his hands pinning Sam’s head in place; then Dean’s twisting, pushing Sam over until the back of his head meets the body of the Impala. Dean’s in front now and Sam has to hold onto his hips and Dean fucks into Sam’s mouth, the solid frame of the Impala behind Sam keeping him from moving, from doing anything but widening his mouth and letting Dean have his way.  
  
Sam’s jaw starts to ache just as Dean accidentally slips, his hips ramming in too deep, cock sliding down Sam’s throat. Sam gags and Dean swears loudly, jerking his dick out of Sam’s mouth, “ _fuck_ , Sam, I didn’t -- are you -- ”  
  
Dean’s already pulling away, moving to do up his pants, contrite all over his face, like this is a mistake, like touching Sam without alcohol and marijuana isn’t worth it -- worth the guilt or whatever’s holding him back.  
  
“What,” Sam rasps, hoarsely, “Am I not good enough? You can -- ” Sam doesn’t know where this next bit comes from, maybe from the knot in his gut that tightens every time Dean comes home with slick on his lips, smelling of sex; from every time Dean had touched him without looking, with his eyes glazed over -- “Fuck my mouth, God, Dean, I don’t care -- fuck me -- ” The last bit comes out desperately, and Sam must look a mess, his mouth red and swollen, looking up at Dean.  
  
Dean pulls Sam up and kisses him, cups the bulge in Sam’s pants and tugs at his jeans before twisting him around, pushing him to lean over the hood of the Impala. “God,” Dean mutters, hitching up Sam’s hip so that Sam has to plant his forearms wide on the hood; Dean leans over, his chest blanketing Sam’s body. “You have no _fucking_ idea -- ”  
  
There’s a thunk as Sam rests his head on the hood of the Impala. Dean’s cock is still slick with Sam’s spit as it slips in between Sam’s thighs.  
  
For a second, Sam’s completely still with shock -- he thinks that Dean will fuck him like that, without anything, just push in, raw, and take him. But instead Dean pushes Sam’s legs together, tight, and starts rocking, his cock sawing, catching on Sam’s balls, sliding along his thighs in a pantomime of sex. It feels like he’s being fucked -- his entire body’s rocking against the Impala, hips slamming into the metal. Dean’s everywhere, the smell of him in the air, his body smothering Sam, his breath hot against the sensitive skin of Sam’s ear; and there’re these little details -- the cold bite of Dean’s zipper, the rasp of Dean’s tongue against Sam’s neck, the uncomfortable ram of metal against the bone of Sam’s hips -- that make this moment seem undeniably visceral and raw.  
  
Dean mouths at Sam’s neck, the swatch of skin where his neck and shoulder meet, and then slams arhythmically, pounding Sam into the Impala as he comes, his teeth coming out like a fucking _animal_ , biting at Sam’s skin. His semen splatters against Sam’s thighs and Sam whines when Dean teeths at his neck.  
  
Sam makes a small noise of discomfort as Dean pulls back. Sam’s thighs quiver and give out. He slides a few inches down the hood of the Impala before Dean catches his hips, twists him around -- and oh, God, Sam’s thighs squelch as he moves -- so that he’s splayed out on the hood of the Impala, jeans still holding his legs together at the knee from where they’re pushed down. His shirt, rucked up now to around the bottom of his ribcage, slides across the hood of the car until Dean pins him down by the hips, leans over and takes his cock into his mouth.  
  
_He’s so much better at this than me_ , is all that Sam can think of. Whereas Sam was artless and fumbling, Dean takes his time, mouthing and tonguing at the head of Sam’s cock, sucking and slurping so that Sam’s head hits the hood of the Impala as he stares up at the sky. Everything is hot and warm and tight, the heat of Dean’s mouth unbelievably good. There’s this white-hot heat, flaring at the base of his spine, curling up his body. Sam cants his hips up, sliding deeper into Dean’s mouth. And Dean invites him in, flattening his tongue against Sam’s dick, humming like he’s having the time of his life --  
  
Sam comes with a shout, bucking forward into Dean’s throat.  
  
Dean swipes at Sam’s legs, wiping up the mess he’s made. Then he’s tugging Sam’s shirt up, his gaze darting around, looking past Sam and the Impala, to the road that unspools ahead of them. “Come on,” Dean mutters, looking warily ahead. He doesn’t look at Sam, but he takes his arm, guiding him to the car, his grip tight -- so tight it’s as though he never wants to let go.  
  
  
+  
  
  
Something must have changed -- in the both of them. It’s like a dam’s been burst open; every fantasy Sam’s every entertained, whether it features Dean or not, seems to been playing over and over in his head, an endless spool of distraction. During class, when there’s a particularly boring lecture (these days, everything seems so, even the AP-prep lectures), or fuck, even when they’re getting gas for the Impala, waiting for Dean to fill the tank, Sam’s mind wanders. He thinks of Dean mostly, obviously, of his mouth, his hands, his cock. To list all his imaginings would be to write a three-novel series. The only saving boon is that it’s been a relief from the ever anxious worry over college responses, as Sam begins to make list of things to bring, as his friends begin receiving acceptances.  
  
Because, a few days after that, late at night, Dean storms into Sam’s room, bringing a cloud of musk that smells suspiciously of alcohol and dank. “Where’s my jacket?”  
  
“What jacket?” Sam says idly, still immersed in his textbook. (He’s not really reading, mostly letting his thoughts wander, but you probably already know that.)  
  
“My jacket -- the one you…” Dean trails off.  
  
At Dean’s pause, Sam looks up. “The -- ”  
  
Dean’s focus lies somewhere past the clutter on Sam’ desk; Sam follows his gaze across the heap of clothing on the carpet, to the closet, where the corner of something white hangs out of a half-open cabinet.  
  
“You still have that,” Dean rasps.  
  
“Have -- have what?” Sam frowns.  
  
Dean steps toward the closet and Sam lurches forward to stop him.  
  
“Get off,” Dean says, pushing Sam away. “Let me -- ”  
  
“Hey,” Sam starts, his chair screeching across the floor in his haste to stand. “Stop, Dean, _stop!_ ” Sam barrels forward -- he’s almost the same height as Dean now, but where Sam is tall and scrawny, Dean’s sturdy and set, so he shoves Sam aside, Sam’s back knocking into the doorframe of the closet as Dean swipes up the white dress.  
  
“What’s -- ”  
  
“It’s not -- ” Sam starts to protest. He knees in the general direction of Dean’s groin, must hit something solid because Dean yelps in pain and Sam grabs the dress, his cheeks burning; he’s fifteen years old again, wearing a cheerleading skirt and half-hard in the front yard of a houseparty, with an undeniably freakish, perverted attraction to his _brother_ , of all the fucking people --  
  
“Quit it,” Dean snarls, grabbing Sam’s shirt. Then they’re scrabbling, fighting; Dean’s got the advantage of both experience and bulk (Sam can count the number of fights he’s been in on one hand, minus a few fingers, are you kidding?), so he quickly manhandles Sam, wrestling him down onto the ground with a thud.  
  
“Oh,” Dean says quietly, “Samantha, you’re so -- ”  
  
“Leave me _alone_ ,” Sam pants, struggling valiantly but vainly, as Dean pins him down with one arm, the other clutching the white fabric in his hand.  
  
It’s not the same skirt that Sam’d put on a few years ago, at that party where Reese and the cheerleaders put him into a ridiculous outfit. It’s a prop from a theater production a few weeks ago. But Dean looks… looks hungry and intense -- and Sam doesn’t have a fucking clue what to do with the sudden rush of blood, of adrenaline and of _want_ surging through his veins.  
  
“Put it on,” Dean suddenly demands. He peers down at Sam.  
  
“I -- what,” Sam splutters, freezing in his attempts to get out of Dean’s grip. “I don’t -- ”  
  
But then Dean gives him that look -- and Sam falters.  
  
“Put it on,” Dean demands again, lowly, and fuck, has he been smoking or something? His voice is low and raspy. Sam hesitates, it can’t be more than a split second, but Dean’s a shark, smells even just a single drop of blood, of hesitation --  
  
“Stop it! Dean, God, are you high?” Sam yelps as Dean’s efforts are reinvigorated; and yeah, Dean must’ve been drinking out late with his friends, because he bares his teeth and laughs, easily fending off Sam’s attempts to throw him off.  
  
Dean grabs Sam’s knee then and yanks; his thigh accidentally slips in between Sam’s legs and Dean has the audacity to look -- _surprised_ , like he could be surprised, how could he be surprised? When they’ve known each other for this long, this intimately?  
  
Dean goes, “You’re hard,” in that simple, stupid voice of his. Sam will miss that voice.  
  
Sam breathes out heavily, staring up at the ceiling, wishing for the sweet fucking release of death, because that’d be better than this utter humiliation.  
  
A slap to Sam’s thigh shakes him out of his self-pity.  
  
“Put it on,” Dean repeats. Sam cranes his neck to meet Dean’s gaze.  
  
It could be really hot -- Dean taking off Sam’s clothes and then pulling on the dress, doing up the zipper in the back, his fingertips brushing Sam’s bare skin -- but really it goes like this: Sam, limbs loose and awkward with want, clumsily pushing off his jeans, catching his t-shirt on his hair as he yanks it off, pulling on the white dress dumbly (nothing underneath) as Dean leans against the bed and watches.  
  
“So,” Sam says, “I hope you’re fucking pleased about this, because this is about the most embarrassing thing I’ve ever -- ”  
  
The bottom hem of the skirt falls into place and there’s barely a second that passes before Dean’s surging forward, crowding Sam up against the closed bedroom door.  
  
All protest die away as Dean licks his way into Sam’s mouth, hungry and possessive. One hand grips Sam’s hip, the other slides up Sam’s thigh, slipping underneath the white hem of the dress. Sam’s never felt so exposed: the bottom of the dress rides up easily, and the thin material of the fabric does nothing to hide the blob of precum leaking through from Sam’s cock. Sam wraps his arms around Dean’s shoulders, hands coming up to clutch at Dean’s head as Dean scoops up his ass, hitches him up so that all Sam can feel are the hard lines of Dean’s chest, his hipbones, his cock pressed up against his front. Sam’s heart is still beating a hole in his chest, but in a good way; his hair’s probably plastered to his head, sweaty, but he can’t bring himself to care.  
  
Because --  
  
Three fingers creep up the inside of Sam’s thigh, fondling his balls, tugging at his cock before slipping further.  
  
Sam jerks involuntarily and bites down on Dean’s lip when Dean’s finger brushes against the tight ring of Sam’s ring. Dean grunts lowly and thrusts wantonly against Sam’s dress, the material of his jeans rough against Sam’s thighs. Sam stifles a groan when Dean licks his fingers and then brings them back down, under the dress, in between Sam’s thighs, to touch Sam’s hole.  
  
The way that Dean’s canting his hips and the way he circles Sam’s asshole slowly bring to mind the thought of Dean fucking him -- properly fucking him, like opening him up and putting his cock inside Sam’s body; a full body shiver runs through Sam and --  
  
He can’t -- he can’t say anything, because his voice, his heart, his breath is caught in his throat, he can’t fucking think --  
  
Dean slides down and takes Sam’s cock into his mouth; Sam honest-to-God whimpers, bare feet, his heels, digging into the floor, hips uncomfortably pressed against the door behind him as Dean goes to work. If he looks at Dean, he’ll come, so he looks up.  
  
Sam can barely recognize himself in the mirror ahead -- his dress is rumpled, there’s a dark stain down the front, and his long hair’s tangled. Dean’s head bobs rhythmically. A knot of desire tightens in Sam’s stomach.  
  
One of Dean’s hands comes around to cup Sam’s ass, tugging him close so that the other hand can take Sam’s cock, lift it up. Then Dean leans down and nuzzles, licks his way around Sam’s balls, taking one of them into his mouth, holy fuck --  
  
There’s this slow current running around the room, building like electricity, and it seems to coil and sharpen as Dean -- seemingly inevitably -- licks at Sam’s rim.  
  
Though the expectation had been mounting, Sam still bucks in surprise. Dean presses the flat of his tongue against the wrinkle of skin. For a minute, Dean’s tongue wanders, burning hot and impossibly wet, pressing against sensitive skin. Then Dean fumbles in his pocket, then pulls out lube, because, he’s Dean Winchester, and of _course_ \--  
  
Dean pulls back; the dress falls back down and Dean’s expression is dark.  
  
“On the bed,” Dean says. Sam’s balls tighten.  
  
Sam scrambles to do so, ends up face down ass up so that Dean can just flip over the skirt, expose him. Dean’s fingers, slick and cool with lube, return to brush at Sam’s hole. Sam’s breath hitches as Dean slides a finger in, slow and smooth. There’s a growing sense of anticipation at the bottom of Sam’s gut, coupled with a bundle of nerves that won’t let Sam stay still. He twitches and fidgets as Dean slowly slides in another finger, working him open.  
  
Dean’s voice is throaty and low when he murmurs, right into Sam’s ear, “Good?  
  
Sam can’t answer, his voice caught in his chest, so he just nods, cheek rubbing against the pillow he’s mashed against.  
  
The room’s hot -- too hot -- everything is sticky and damp, the way Sam can feel his cock and balls shifting around, underneath the dress. Dean’s all around him, over him, in him, and Sam just concentrates on his breathing. In and out, in and out as one finger turns to two turns to three.  
  
Dean works him slowly, almost too slow. His breath is hot and intimate on Sam’s bare skin and Sam struggles to focus his gaze on the pillow in front of him.  
  
And then Dean brushes against a spot inside of Sam. Sam jerks, his head nearly banging into the wall, as a ribbon of heat twists in his gut.  
  
“Sam,” Dean croaks. He almost sounds unsure. Sam doesn’t know how to reply, so he bites his lips, and concentrates on the slow stoking of the fire in his belly.  
  
It feels like Dean, who has been unwaveringly patient throughout all of this, has been working him for ages, scissoring him open slowly and steadily. The strange sensation has mostly gone away, and Dean touches Sam, works him back up so that he’s hard again. Dean touches him slowly, reverently, like he -- he wants to savor the moment, memorize the feel of this.  
  
Sam goes, “Come on,” and wiggles his ass impatiently.  
  
Dean presses that spot again, and Sam bucks his hips. The tip of Dean’s cock nudges Sam’s hole before pressing in.  
  
It’s -- uncomfortable. A strange mixture of discomfort and pleasure as Dean pushes in swells in Sam’s belly. Then Dean builds up a rhythm: pushing in and out, his hands gripping Sam’s waist tightly, fucking him from behind, driving Sam’s face into the mattress. White noise fills Sam’s head as he holds onto the sheets, catching his breath, trying to adjust.  
  
Sam can’t stop thinking about how this looks -- Sam’s white skirt flipped over, Dean on his knees on the bed behind Sam, driving in at a punishing pace; can’t stop thinking about the way Dean’s grip will leave bruises, the way his breath feels against Sam’s skin. Sam’s cock flops against his chest but Sam can’t touch himself without losing grip of the mattress.  
  
Dean’s breath is uneven, stifled almost; when Sam twists to look behind him, Dean’s eyes are narrow and he’s biting his lip, like he’s trying to stop himself from making noise, from enjoying himself --  
  
But then Dean hits Sam’s prostate again and Sam swings his head back as the pleasure blinds him. He chokes back a moan and screws his eyes shut to stop from crying out.  
  
It doesn’t take long at all for Dean to come; his pace falters and he makes half a groan, nails digging in painfully. When his hips pivets one last time, Dean also reaches out to tug at Sam’s cock. Sam comes within seconds, already close enough to come within a few strokes.  
  
It’s so, so good -- for about a few minutes, anyway. Dean’s hand comes up to thumb lazily at Sam’s neck, right at his pulse. Sam slumps against the bed and closes his eyes as Dean’s cock slips out in a messy slide, disgusting slide. Dean leans on one side, elbow propped up on the bed. He wipes his dirty hand on the sheet -- ordinarily Sam would protest but he’s too sleepy to care -- and huffs out a breath of contentment.  
  
Then it gets to be gross so Sam gets up to change out of the dress and grab tissues to clean up. When he comes back, Dean’s done up his jeans but left his shirt, stained with sweat and precome, on the floor. He’s shifting from one foot to another, looking uncharacteristically uncomfortable, when Sam reenters. Sam thinks of the other girls, the times he’s overheard and seen Sam with his other -- other conquests. He was never like this, not unsure or quiet, uncharismatic --  
  
“Look, Sam,” Dean starts. The side of his hair sticks up and there’s a dark spot blooming on his bottom lip.  
  
Sam clears his throat. He thinks of all the things he could say. He thinks of how he’ll be leaving next year, dorming at wherever he decides to go, even though once it was always Sam and Dean, Dean and Sam.  
  
Dean finally settles on, “Your turn to do the laundry,” and Sam can’t help but scoff.  
  
The sound of the front door slamming open signals the return of their dad. Instantaneously they snap into action: Sam scrambles to shuck off the dress and shove it back into his closet; Dean kicks his dirty shirt under the bed and grabs one of Sam’s. Sam’s just finished pulling on a new pair of jeans when a knock comes on their door.  
  
“Sam?”  
  
As soon as John’s voice wafts through the door, Sam realizes that the light in his room is still on at this late hour. Dean gestures quickly and Sam goes, “yeah?”  
  
“Where’s Dean?”  
  
Sam glances at Dean and Dean jerks his head toward the door.  
  
“How would I know? Out, probably.” Dean rolls his eyes and shucks off his dirty jeans, leaving his boxers and shirt. He climbs onto the bed and starts combing through his hair with his fingers.  
  
Dad makes a noncommittal noise. “Don’t sleep late.”  
  
“Night,” Sam says. After the telltale sound of heavy footsteps leads away from his room, Sam turns around and frowns. “Get off,” he says.  
  
“I’m the guest here, and you told him I’m out, so I can’t exactly leave now, can I?” Dean’s room is on the other side of Dad’s, and so John would see were Dean to return his own room. Sam ignores the open textbook on his desk and instead flips off the lights, heads to the bed.  
  
“And why were you in here in the first place?” Sam asks dryly.  
  
For a while Sam thinks that Dean won’t reply, because he just tugs him into bed. They arrange themselves like the way they did when they were younger, and though the smell of alcohol and sex hangs over them like a cloud, their touch is as chaste as children -- Dean’s arm slung loosely over Sam’s torso, Sam’s leg curled around Dean’s. But then Dean presses his lips against the back of Sam’s neck, mouths a bit at the skin there. After a while, after their breathing evens out and their heartbeats slow, Dean slides a hand under Sam’s shirt, presses into the hollow underneath Sam’s ribs. Sam’s heartbeat pulses slow and somber against Dean’s palm, like a threnody. It feels like goodbye.  
  
  
+  
  
  
This is how it once was:  
  
No matter how bad things got, no matter how angry John was or how many bars Dean got kicked out of, it would always be Sam and Dean at the end of the day. They -- awkward and non-communicative as they were -- were there for each other.  
  
(It starts like this.)  
  
When Sam is eight he watches Dean kiss a girl, hand on the edge of her skirt, for the first time. When Sam is eleven he dreams about Julia. When he’s fifteen, Dean offers him a beer in the middle of the hot springs and Sam wishes he could freeze time. When Sam turns sixteen he drives Julia to the movies and kisses her like he once dreamed of. When Sam is eighteen he touches his brother. When Sam is eighteen he gets a letter in the mail that changes the rest of his life.  
  
This is how it is now:  
  
Sam gets accepted into Stanford.  
  
Sam gets accepted into _Stanford_.  
  
The Ivy League of the west, single-digit acceptance rate, better than Berkeley and Northwestern and USC combined Stanford. The four years of hard working, four years of standardized testing, advanced placement, honors credit all for one moment Stanford. _That_ Stanford. It doesn’t feel real.  
  
Dean doesn’t even ask whether or not Sam will commit, just helps him gather his things and pack for the long four years ahead. Sam doesn’t know -- doesn’t really care -- if his dad knows just how much this means.  
  
This is how it is now:  
  
(It ends like this.)  
  
“So.”  
  
Move-in day, California weather, Silicon Valley air. The palm trees sway in the breeze. Like it’s out of a friggin’ movie or something. Maybe it is.  
  
Dean clears his throat, scuffs his foot against the wheel of the Impala. Tries again. “So, this is it, Sammy.”  
  
“Yeah,” Sam says. “Yeah, I mean -- ” he scratches the back of his neck. The combination of first-day jitters and awkward goodbyes has made him anxious.  
  
Dean goes, “Look, Sam, just -- ”  
  
Dean looks at him then. Really looks at him. Dean tries to smile. “Just stay out of trouble, will ya?”  
  
Without thinking about it, Sam grins. “Yeah. Alright.”  
  
Quite honestly, he’s excited. It’s a new life ahead. A difficult four years, but a rewarding journey that lies ahead. Or so they say.  
  
“Alright,” Dean echoes. “Call if you ever need anything, alright? Stay clear of those pretentious assholes.”  
  
Sam mock-salutes, then shoulders his backpack. Dean opens his mouth, as if to say something --  
  
But then apparently thinks better of it, and settles for a final nod. Dean raises his arms and Sam steps in to embrace him. Dean presses his mouth against Sam’s temple, his lips brushing Sam’s hair as Dean says, “Take care.”  
  
Even after Dean steps back, climbs back into the Impala, revs the engine, pulls out of the lot and waves one last time; even after the car turns the corner, toward the freeway, Sam watches. At last when a wave of students rushes by, Sam turns back towards campus. He walks to class, and to the beginning of a new life ahead of him.  



End file.
